Tail of a Comet
by lamentomori
Summary: "So you go to him, carefully, if there's one thing you have learnt over the time you've spent with him, it's that he doesn't accept help without protest. " A tale of two people awkwardly stumbling through what isn't quite (but probably is) a relationship. M for slash and profanity. Colt/Punk
1. Tail of a Comet

If I'm honest I'm not sure where this came from. I was at work doing boring officey stuff when this idea snuck up on me like a ninja. Probably set early 2000's.

Please review, I've not written anything beyond end of month reports in a long time so any feedback, positive or negative would be GREATLY apperciated.

* * *

It's a pointless struggle to force yourself to go against the learned habit of a lifetime, trailing in the wake of something more than you. In school it was your friends, your family's academic hopes for you, whilst you dreamed of the wrestling ring and doodled your gear, you drifted on autopilot scarping a passing grade and dreaming of the bright lights and cheers of a wrestling crowd. Now, you trail behind something, someone, who in all honesty, is at times more force of nature than actual member of humanity. He's all fire and spit and vinegar, jagged and abrasive and scruffy. You, you're the clean cut, wholesome, bumbling fool that goes along behind, the loveable lackey, the naive henchmen to his super-villain.

At least that is the outside perception, that he charges forward without a glance behind and you, like the tail of a comet trailing behind, faithfully following in his wake, collecting the collateral, dodging the fallout and soothing the tempers he's frayed.

On the inside though, the inside is a little different. Inside your relationship, without implying more than there is, but friendship seems too trite, camaraderie maybe, alliance perhaps, words aren't your strongest point. The inside of this _thing_ is different to how most people on the outside perceive it and you know that. On the inside, you know that he's a fraying, tangled, jumbled mess of chaos and half formed thoughts and ideas and manic energy that needs the outlet standing in front of a room half-full of people with a mic in his hand and a snarl on his lips or tangling in the violent ballet that you both love, gives. He needs a crowd and a performance and when he doesn't have it, when he's too tired, too hurt, too entrenched in the mire that his own thoughts conjure up, he has you. You're the balm to soothe his hurt and his temper. Not water to his fire, because that would suggest that somehow you are capable of smothering him, of putting him out. You're more like the control knob for gas on a stove, you can lower the flame, make it smaller for a while. Without you, you worry he'd burnout too quickly, that he'd somehow use himself up and be gone or set the kitchen on fire.

It starts in much the same way it always does, he's been snapping at people more often, his strikes connect a little more sharply, his comebacks at fans a little more cruel. In short, he is a more vicious version of himself and the scowls and glares sent at you by mutual friends clearly show that it is time for you to employ your skills as a Punk-whisperer.

So you go to him, carefully, if there's one thing you have learnt over the time you've spent with him, it's that he doesn't accept help without protest. If he had his way, he would keep going until his hand was forced, until it all gets so bad that he has to seek you out. It was like that in the beginning, when you weren't quite sure what he needed from you and it was all blind fumbling in the dark. The same feeling you get when the power is out and you try to feel your way to closet where you keep the flashlight, the familiar surroundings of your apartment rendered unrecognisable by shadows and unknown noises.

The first time, the brash out-spoken Punk that you were used to was nowhere to be seen and in his place was an almost meek because even when he's desperate, meek is not something he could ever conceivably be, nervous person. He showed up at your place and sat on the sofa, sat almost daintily rather than sprawled in his usual fashion. This timid creature sat and asked softly if he could stay the night. You assumed that he needed a place to crash because he was fighting with his girlfriend, an easy assumption, dating Punk is like trying to catch the wind, at least this is what you have observed because you are decidedly not dating. No, whatever this is, whatever you are doing, it's not a "relationship", you are certainly not his boyfriend and you have no intention of introducing him to your parents as anything other than your wrestling friend Punk.

So that first time, you assumed that the sofa would be his bed for the night. He slept, sleeps and will likely continue to sleep on your sofa on a semi-regular basis, claiming that your place is closer than any hotel he'd pay to stay in. However, that first time, he followed you to bed, slipped under the covers and lay perfectly still beside you in the darkness. At the time questioning him seemed pointless, you learnt early in your _friendship_ that questioning his actions will 9 times out of 10 result in him ignoring you. So you let him be. You fell asleep to the sound of him breathing and the traffic on the street outside your apartment. You woke, some unknown time later, to a weight on your chest and a mouth full of peroxide blond hair. He woke up and looked at you from where his head rested on your chest, with a wary look in his eyes. You simply gathered his hair back and re-tied it in the band that had been holding it off his face, wrapped an arm around his waist and went back to sleep.

You didn't have sex that night, more often than not you don't. The majority of the time you just share a bed, his head tucked under your chin and your arms looped around him. In fact, you don't actually remember the first time you had sex. You think that it should be something you remember, the first time you fucked your _best friend_ but really, you can't. You think it was in some random hotel and you think it was awkward, no, you know it was awkward but the details blur into the other times you've been inside him. Each occasion has melded into one rather pleasant memory for when you don't have a girl or him. The way he lies almost motionless beneath you, the way his eyes demand that you take care of him, that you pamper and protect him, take care of and for him. The way his legs, covered in long and slightly scratchy hair reassuringly obviously not female, wrap around your waist and pull you firmly to him. The way his hands scrabble at your back and clutch at your hair. The way his lips feel, the way they taste, the shape they make when he cries your name as his back arches in the throes of orgasm. The best memory though, the one thing you remember specifically from each occasion, is the smile he gives you once you've cum inside him. A smile you are certain no one but you has ever seen. His eyes hazy and mellow, the curve of his lips all kitten soft and gentle. That smile is probably the most beautiful thing you have ever seen. You lay no claim to his body, his heart or his soul but that smile; you've mentally christened it yours. You're certain you would kill anyone else who ever sees that smile, it's yours and you are possessive of it.

You eventually find the room in the cheap motel that everyone agreed was okay for the night that has been designated as the one you'll share with him. It's a good distance from everyone else's and you aren't certain if this is because no one wants to have to deal with Punk or because no one wants to know exactly what you are going to do to calm him down. You open the door to an empty room, the sound of the shower and the pile of dirty clothes leaves you in no doubt as to his location. You debate with yourself about going in there and fucking him in the shower stall but you know that when it comes to sex between you two, he always pushes for a bed. It's a strange quirk, one of a myriad he has; you know that with the women he sleeps with, location is far from important. So instead, you strip down to boxers and sit on the bed. You flick through the channels on the TV and wait for him to get out of the bathroom so you can judge his mood.

The bathroom door closes quietly and you can tell straightaway that it'll be a night when you'll get that smile. He glances at you, then at the TV and raises an eyebrow. His expression eloquently stating switch it off and pay attention to me. You press the off button and throw the remote in the general direction of the bedside table. You stretch your arms out to him and mutter a soft "Punkers". He concedes to your request and comes to you easily. The kiss he presses to your lips is soft and barely there. He straddles your legs, sitting on your lap as you stroke his damp hair back from his face and study him for a few moments, overlaying his current almost non-expression with the smile you're hoping to receive later. His expression doesn't change but the look in his eyes clearly states what are you waiting for. So you kiss him, hands in his hair tangling as your tongue tangles with his. You nibble at his lips, careful of the ring there; it's new enough that he'll complain if you aren't. He makes a soft noise as you move from his lips to his throat, nipping gentle kisses along it, sucking behind his ear because he likes it, knowing it'll force that soft moan from him again. You move back along the bed, taking him with you and gently manoeuvre him to his back. He looks up at you and gestures with his chin towards the table by the bed, where the half-used bottle of lubricant sits. You grab it and then promptly ignore it in favour of placing more kisses along his throat, down his chest to his nipples, tugging at the rings in them with fingers and teeth. His back arching towards you and that soft moan of approval sounds in your ears. For a man so loud and vocal in every other aspect of his life, when it comes to sex with you, he is quiet and soft. You don't think of this as a negative review of your endeavours, rather an indication that this is something else to him, that alone with only you as his audience he doesn't feel the need to be on, with you he can be quiet and soft and fragile.

You pour a little of the lube into your hand and take a hold of his cock, slowly stroking it to from the semi-aroused state it had been in to full hardness. Teasing the slit with a fingernail and rubbing the head with slow firm strokes. His hips cant upwards and your name tumbles from his lips on a breath. His eyes are slits gazing at you, the message is clearly hurry up and briefly you consider ignoring him and bringing him off like this, only slow gentle strokes building his orgasm like assembling a ship in a bottle, painstakingly slow but rewarding all the same. However, he has other ideas and in a fit of unusual participation wraps one long, lean and deceptively strong leg around you, pulling you closer to him, bringing your boxer clad groin into contact with his. You take the hint and shed your underwear swiftly, pouring more lube into your hand and gently easing a finger inside him. You work it back and forth, letting him get comfortable with one, before sliding another in. Preparing him to take you is something you honestly enjoy a lot more than you should, he's never not suffocatingly tight around that first finger and it reassures you that no other man has ever been given the privilege of seeing CM Punk on his back with his legs spread waiting to be taken. It's a strangely gratifying thought, that he considers you to be worthy of this.

You enter him slowly, offering him reassuring caresses along his thighs, up to his chest and finally his cheek, cupping it gently as you press a kiss to his lips. Once your thighs are pressed against his, you wait. At this moment your patience feels infinite, you are certain that you would be happy to wait like this forever, waiting for him to give you the look that says hurry up and fuck me. You start slowly, withdrawing slightly only to press forwards once more. You gather speed at a steady pace. You never seem to be able to fully pound into him, it's never a porno quality fuck between you, there is always that undercurrent of gentleness. This isn't about getting off after all, at least you think it isn't, it's difficult to tell what he thinks about the whole thing because you never ask and he never volunteers information. Your orgasm almost sneaks up on you; you've felt it tingling in your balls for a while, as you watch his eyes trying to gauge how close he is. The answer comes as swiftly as he does. His back curving towards you and the warm fluid of his release covers the hand you had wrapped around him. His body tightens and flutters around your shaft and you manage two or three more strokes before you cum in him, cradling his body close to you as you bury your face in his shoulder. As your breathing returns to normal, he smiles at you. That kitten fluff soft smile that makes you want this more often than you get it. That smile that makes the mild confusion this situation brings and the shit you have to wade through to get into it worthwhile. You use your discarded boxers to make a half-assed attempt at cleaning up, knowing that in the morning you'll just have a shower and flop onto your back. As soon as your spine hits the sheets, his head is tucked beneath your chin, his hands clasped under his own. You settle one arm around his waist and the other moves through his hair. You have no idea if he likes to have his hair stroked but you enjoy it and he's never objected. You press a kiss to his forehead and close your eyes, muttering Goodnight Punkers. The returned G'night Colt, is half-slurred with the onset of sleep. You smile knowing that tomorrow everything will return to normal, that you will be the Bebop or Rocksteady to his Shredder, the Smee to his Captain Hook. Tomorrow you will be the tail and he will be the comet and it will be fine, until the next time you find yourself in the position of his pillow.


	2. 10 count

So this came along to go with the first part... Punk comes in 1st person apparently and is rambling and profanity ridden.

* * *

I am a simple man. I have simple needs, simple desires, simple goals. It's the rest of the World that's complicated. I know that the World would disagree, it would propose that I am the complicated one, that I am the one who makes things difficult but no, I am an uncomplicated man, what you see is what you get. It's a very straightforward thing really, all I want is to be the best, the best in the World in my chosen career path and the World, well it throws roadblock after roadblock after roadblock in my way. I concede, perhaps I am not in possession of the longest fuse; my temper does get the better of me. I also admit that maybe I am perhaps not the most tactful person on the Earth but there are times when being direct is the most efficient way to my goal and if someone is too sensitive to deal with a man lacking in the flattering bullshit that is flung around locker rooms, then this is hardly my fault. I am perfectly capable of shaking hands and offering respect to those who deserve it, I'm not a complete asshole, I just don't see the need for the sycophantic hypocrisy that very fucker seems willing to engage in.

My life to this point, history has dictated, has the over-arching themes of neglect and betrayal. There are times when it all feels a little Shakespeare meets teen drama meets Hallmark channel made for TV special. Family issues, relationship issues, money issues, self-esteem issues, housing issues, if you ask pervious girlfriends they'll add trust and mommy issues in too. Really, I think that with all the shit I've endured, I deserve to be an asshole every now and then. But does this stop Life from trying to hand me lemons? Of course not but fuck you Life, I don't want your fucking lemons, in fact I demand to see you manager so I can personally shove these motherfucking lemons up his fat ass and demand a refund.

There are times when Life wins, sort of, kind of, temporarily at least. When even I notice that maybe I shouldn't have told that waitress to fuck off, or maybe I shouldn't have kicked that guy in the ring so hard and perhaps wishing death on someone's parents is an over-reaction but really, just cause you share a surname doesn't mean you're required to give a shit about them or them you.

I view being alive as an Iron Man match, each time Life temporarily wins, well that's it scoring a pinfall and I have till the count of 10 to make it to my feet, thank you very much, Life. That 10 count, that's Cabana. Now, ask me what we are to each other on any given day of the week and I'll say friends, _best _friends, brothers more than anything but the truth of the matter is, he's my 10 count. Those precious 9 and a half seconds, without outside interference and Cabana isn't above interfering on my behalf to buy me extra time, that's what Colt Cabana is for me.

Colt's an equally simple man; I think this is why I like him. He doesn't ask me stupid questions, he doesn't postulate that my childhood has forged me into the some kind of helplessly broken soul that needs to be patched up with the crazy glue of love and the power of cushions. Why do girlfriends always think my place will be improved with the addition of cushions? What good has a cushion ever done? They're a lot like Life's fucking lemons if you ask me.

The first time I realised exactly what I had found in Cabana, I admit Life had me pretty well beat down. Everything ached from my toes to my scalp; I hadn't slept in what felt like forever so I skulked to Colt's and asked to crash. If I'm honest, it was an impulse decision to follow him to bed. I think you could probably add impulse control issues to the list. He was out pretty much out straight away and I was awake wondering what the hell I was doing, laying in bed with my best friend snoring away. I don't remember falling asleep, I do remember waking up to him looking at me like I was insane. I remember him spitting my hair out of his mouth and wrapping the cheap rubber band back around it and then going back to sleep. No questions, no fuss, no nothing I didn't want to deal with, just a good night's sleep and a comfortable if slightly noisy pillow.

The whole sleeping thing happened a good few times before it went any further. The first time we fucked, I remember clearly. I blame the whole impulse control thing. I was tired, as I always am when I need a 10 count. On this occasion tired brought a date, horny. As much as I wanted to find the girl I was with, I was sure I wouldn't have the energy to actually fuck her, so I ended up with Colt doing the fucking and me getting off like I wanted. I remember the way his face turned bright red like a fucking tomato when I kissed him and how fucking nervous he was but he didn't question me. He went with it, kissed me back, touched me like I was cotton candy, fucked me like his prom date, all nervous hands and second guessed fumbling.

I'm never surprised by how gentle he is with me, it's not like he goes around fucking lots of dudes to get used to it and he knows I'll likely have a match the next day. I imagine that getting a good pounding in the ass and then having to any length of time in the ring would not be fun. But that's just another way, Colt's as simple as me, he gets all of this and acts accordingly. He doesn't need to ask me the fucking stupid, inane questions that other people do because he knows, he understands me. He's the Spock to my Kirk or maybe Alfred to my Batman, he gets me, he has my back, my front and mostly likely my sides too. He knows what I need and when I need it.

Last night for example, Life had me pretzeled up in some horrific submission move and I was tapping, hell I was willing to scream I quit and Colt came to me and let me get my breathe back. Fucker that he is, I'm sure; he would have made me wait all night to get off if I didn't force him to get on with it. Sure, some times all I need is a handjob and I'm done but sometimes I need to feel him in me. It's hard to explain but sometimes I need to know that I can take everything he has to offer. I'm often accused of being selfish and maybe I am but I take nothing from Cabana that he hasn't offered me, I don't demand from him what hasn't already been given by his own will. We're partners, if he asked of me what I ask of him, I'd do it no questions but he doesn't ask. He's pretty much got Life's number, I'm not sure Life's even managed a 2 count on Colt. He gives me sanctuary in open arms and gentle kisses, his body moving over and in me, wearing me out in the way that gives me a second wind, ready to start demanding to see that manager about these fucking lemons.

* * *

Ms Bitter-Alisa: I am beyond flattered and strongly dispute that my ramblings make even a step towards the perfection of Deserving?, but to have you say so literally made my day. I thank you so much!


	3. One step forward, two steps back

This appears to have decided to become a series, very much without my consent, a series with a formula too. Back to 2nd person Colt for this part. Updates will likely come fast, as this appears to be much more fun to write than a report for my boss.

* * *

The light in the lounge is on when you drag yourself home. Travelling alone is always more exhausting than it should be and all you want to do is sleep. The thrifty part of you worries that you left that light on for the last 4 days. Between gas, food and motels you're not sure you'll have enough to cover an unexpectedly high electricity bill. You hear the sound of what appears to be a Spanish soap opera and relax slightly. There's someone in your apartment; based on who has a key to your place, your mother and Punk, you have a fair idea of who's there.

He's sprawled across your sofa, head on the armrest, feet hanging over the other end, the remote on his stomach. "How was Mexico?" He doesn't look up from the TV as he mumbles. It's then you notice that he seems to be sucking on an ice-cube. "Hot. What happened to you?" You think this is a question which is reasonably likely to get an answer, the others floating around your head, why are you here, why aren't you wearing a shirt, why is there 2 days worth of dirty cups on my table, will likely garner nothing but a blank look. What happened, though, that might just get a response.

"I didn't duck." The answer is as ambiguous as you had expected but you've had practice at deciphering what he says and interpreting it against what he means to piece together the truth. You conclude that he likely fought with his girlfriend, she threw something, a fist, a vase, a brick and he, as he said, didn't duck. The ice, you're guessing is for his lip-ring, which seems to not yet be used to being in the line of fire, it swells more often than he's happy about.

"Sit down." He curls his legs up to give you a spot on the sofa. You flop down wearily, you're tired, exhausted really, alls you want to do is sleep but he seems to be pretty awake, he seems downright chirpy, for Punk at least, meaning sleep may be a long time coming. Before long, his feet find their way to your lap and you find yourself absentmindedly stroking his ankle, staring at the chipped pink polish on his toenails. The urge to ask him why they're pink comes but you let it go, inane questioning at this point will only rile him up and you're in no mood for a scene. You're honestly not sure you're in the mood for him at all but you won't ask him to leave, if only for the reason that you're not sure where he'd go. The thought of a free-range Punk, especially a Punk who sought sanctuary in your home, even though you weren't there, scares you a little. If you threw him out now, who knows what he'd think of it. It would, you're certain, revoke your status as Punk-whisperer; a task you take great pleasure in so you say nothing and keep your thumb moving over the bones of his ankle.

"You falling asleep on me?" His voice jolts you out of the stupor you'd fallen into and you realise that more time has passed than you thought. The TV is playing a documentary about serial killers and the streetlights have come on. Glancing at the clock, you realise that you've been sat there for just over an hour. "I'm just tired." You mutter, turning to look at him. The bags under his eyes seem darker than usual, his bottom lip looks puffy, the skin around his piercing red and slightly dry. He nods at your words and moves his feet. "Go to bed." he turns back to the TV and you suppose you're being dismissed. You have two options. You could do as you're told and go sleep in your bed, which at this moment that sounds wonderful but you think that for all his appearing to be cheerful, there's something wrong. So you take option two, slouch a little more on the sofa and catch his legs and bring them back to their spot on your lap. "It's too early for bed." You try to sound more awake than you feel and you think it works when all he does is scoff at you and still watching the TV.

You wake sometime later to the feeling of his fingers stroking your hair, your head in his lap, your face almost pressed against his stomach, your vision filled with pale flesh and his _straight edge_ tattoo. "Told you, you were falling asleep on me." He sounds smug and you know that if you looked up, he'd have that irritating little smirk on his face, the one that says I'm never wrong. You make an indistinct noise and consider going back to sleep. His thighs are comfortable, his fingers soothing and the movement his breathing causes strangely relaxing. You wonder if this is why he falls asleep on you so easily, if he feels this calm when your arms are wrapped around him.

"You hungry?" His voice sounds from above and you're about to say no when your stomach grumbles. He chuckles and prods at you until you sit up. "Pizza?" He already has his cell in hand when he asks; you manage a vague nod and flop over. Conversation feels like it would be too much effort for you right now, all you want is food and to fall back asleep. His smirk softens to a familiar smile, the one that says you're an idiot, you get it a lot, but then so do the rest of your friends; Punk is as easily amused by other people's stupidity as he is annoyed by it. With pizza ordered, he settles Indian style on the floor between the sofa and the coffee table. His head is close to your hand and you think about stroking his hair but the thought of the effort involved in actually moving your hand puts the idea out of your head. Instead, you focus on the TV and are drawn in by the soothing voice of the narrator.

You only realise you fell back asleep when you smell pizza and find him sitting on the table beside the box, an odd wry look on his face. You see steam rising off of the food inside so at least it's still warm. He smiles at you and hands you a slice. You consider staying on your back to eat but in your head, your mother's voice is already outraged by you not using a plate, so you sit straight, propping your legs up on the table on the other side of him. After the first bite, you manage to consume your half rapidly, he even manages to convince you to take a few extra slices, claiming to have eaten earlier in the day, you're doubtful of the statement but the thought of arguing with him keeps your mouth shut. Arguing with Punk is a lot like dating him, catching the wind seems much easier.

"Go shower." He says once you throw the final crust back in the box. Now that you've napped and eaten, you do feel dirty. Travelling always leaves an uncomfortable feeling on your skin and now that he's suggested it, you think a shower and then bed is a good plan. You glance at the box sitting by the dirty cups he's left there. "Don't worry, I'll clean up." He rolls his eyes and shoos you out of the room.

You stand under the shower, turned as hot as you could bear and wonder at his behaviour. It's uncharacteristic for him to be this considerate of other people, even of you. He's, not quite selfish or even uncaring but usually so focussed on his goals, his plans, that other people seem to be a hassle he neither wants nor needs. For him to be catering to your needs without complaint, without it even being obvious that that's what he's doing, is unusual to say the least. You're not sure what's brought this on; you think that it's probably something more than fighting with his girlfriend but what, you don't know.

When you get out of the shower, towel hanging on your hips, you find him sitting on your bed, a pensive look on his face. You sit beside him and open your mouth to speak, when in a flurry of action he settles in your lap. Your hands, without thought, go to his waist, his bare skin warm and soft under them. His eyes gaze into yours and the look they have is unfamiliar, you feel out of your depth here and aren't quite sure what he wants from you, if he even wants something from you at all. This isn't the way these sort of encounters, him in your lap with very little fabric acting as a barrier between you both, usually go, it's like that not remembered first time all over again. You've been staring at him entirely too long, you realise and start to talk, when he presses a finger to your lips.

"Shhh, lemme." He says softly, pressing your back against the bed, his lips hovering over your own, tantalisingly close. You could claim a kiss from them so very easily and start leaning up to do so when he pulls back. "Can't." He makes a vague gesture to his bottom lip. "Hurts." You want to tell him that you'll be gentle with him, you always are after all but it's rare that he readily confesses a weakness and you don't want to think about what it cost him. You rest back against the pillows and watch him carefully. He's never been this active in bed with you before and a large part of you is intrigued to see what he'll do, especially if he isn't going to use his mouth. You've often wondered what it would be like to have his lips wrapped around your cock but if he won't let you kiss him, you doubt he'd blow you. He brushes the tip of his nose against yours in a parody of a kiss that feels strangely _intimate, _smiles at you and hops off the bed to fetch the bottle of lube you keep in your dresser. Rather than returning immediately, he sheds his pants and boxers, dumping them in a small heap. He flashes you another unfamiliar expression and you don't quite know what you should be doing, you do take his nakedness as having set a precedent and untie the towel from around your waist, leaving it spread beneath your ass. He smiles brightly at you and straddles your thighs. Your cock is half-hard at having him naked and this close to you so it doesn't take much for him to get you fully erect. His hand feels good wrapped around you, his rhythm is different to your own, a little faster, a little harder, he uses his nails a little more but it feels fantastically good.

"You okay?" He asks softly, you almost feel incredulous that he could ask such a dumb question. Punk, a man who offers nothing but disdain for inane questions, asking you what is possibly the most ridiculous thing ever. You think that he probably has a reason for asking but you can't make your mind even begin to understand his thought process, his hand feels too good moving over your length, his breath in your ear feels wonderful. You find you even like the way he feels hovering over you, the weight of him, the heat of him, the press of his thighs straddling your own. Everything about this whole situation feels_ good_, foreign and new but so very _good_.

The first familiar thing that happens is the soft moan he lets out and it's then you realise that his other hand is busy, stretching himself open. You groan at the thought and close your eyes trying to picture his long, slender, tattooed fingers moving in and out of his tight hole. "Punkers, lemme see." You say in a hurried whisper, he looks at you confused. "Lemme see you fingering yourself." You clarify and something you never thought you'd ever see happens; a blush spreads across his cheeks. He makes several aborted attempts at speech but in the end, he looks at you helplessly, his eyes seeking yours out and holding them. "Up." You tug him up on to his knees and scoot yourself further up the bed, tugging at his left leg and he gets the idea, planting his feet on the bed, leaning back leaving you with the view of him, a little open and only just beginning to look ready for you. "Go on, Punkers, lemme watch you." You say softly. He nods and pours more lube on to his hand. The first of his fingers sinks inside him easily enough, the angle appears to be a little awkward for him to reach inside with any depth so he quickly adds a second. This second finger is more difficult, he's always so tight after all, his breath is coming a little faster, as is your own. He looks incredible like this, a light sheen of sweat on his skin, two of his fingers buried inside himself, his long legs spread open, the metal of his nipple rings glinting in the light, his cock erect and firm against his stomach and the best part, that blush on his cheeks and the look in his eyes. He's clearly slightly uncomfortable with you watching this but is willing to go along with it because you asked; right then you wonder what else he would do because you asked. You find yourself wondering if he would, one day, let you fill his mouth with your cum, maybe even cover his face with it. That thought has your cock twitching against your own stomach, the idea of Punk on his knees, your cum dripping over his face, a splash of white against his thin lips as they curve in that soft smile that only you get to see. You're drawn from your thoughts by the noise he makes as he scissors his fingers, clearly trying to speed the whole process along and grazes his prostate. He mutters a harsh "Fuck." and throws you a look you can't quite interpret fast enough for him. He grabs your leg and pulls you flat, straddles your thighs once more and grips your cock in his hand.

"Wait!" You tell him, you want to make sure he's ready yourself, you know him well enough to know that he rarely makes things easy on himself. He never quite warms up enough before a match, he never quite picks a sane, normal enough girl to date, he certainly didn't pick the sort of career a man who refuses even mild painkillers should of. You want this to feel good for him, every time you've been inside him so far, you've been in control, you've decided when it was time to ease your way into his body and you know it felt good, the way he comes beneath you leaves no doubt of that in your mind. Whilst you don't want to take control from him, this is the first time he's been so assertive and you're rather enjoying it, you've learnt when he's completely ready for you and you don't want to cause him pain due to his own eagerness and impatience.

You slide one hand down along the gentle swell of his ass and press one finger inside him; he makes a strangled little moan and presses his forehead to yours. He feels ready or at least ready enough and you brush a gentle kiss over his temple, meeting his eyes with a smile. "Go on." You tell him. He takes you back in hand and slowly lowers his body down your length. The feeling is so very different to when you are the one sinking down into to him; his tight clenching heat slowly lowering down your cock is exquisite and has you panting at the feeling. Once your balls are resting against his ass, he stills, his lungs don't seem to be able to get enough air quickly enough for him to breathe normally. You reach your hand up and stroke his hair from his eyes trying to calm him, causing him to look at you, another indecipherable look glistening there in his eyes. He moves slowly up, the drag of his body is perfection and it's all you can do to keep your hips from bucking up into him. He keeps a slow steady pace for a good while but he's not a patient man by nature and soon he is moving far faster than you would normally, his head thrown back, eyes clamped shut, hand moving over his cock quickly and whilst it looks and _feels_ incredible, you know he'll suffer for it in the morning. "Hey," you start, dragging his attention back to you, his eyes slightly hazy, "Hey, easy Punkers, slow down." You smile at him and catch the back of his neck, pulling him down to you, the angle forcing him to move slower. You want to kiss him, you think this is the first time you've ever truly felt like you _need _to kiss him but you remember his lip and instead rub your nose against his, mimicking his earlier actions, this mock kiss suddenly feeling more important than it should, in that moment it feels like it has more significance than every time you've tasted his lips. You don't dwell on that, not when he's tight and moving slowly over you, his soft gasps sounding so close to your ear. You buck your hips up into him as he rocks down onto your length and he moans that soft little sound you know so well.

"Again." He pleads with you, his eyes still bearing that utterly unfamiliar look. You do as he asks, with every rock down he makes, you buck up into him. You release his neck and he rears up, giving himself more leverage. Your hands settle on hips and allowing you to thrust up into him better, able to reach further, more deeply inside of him. His hand on his cock matches the gentler pace you've dictated. "I'm close, Colt." He tells you, you already knew but somehow you appreciate him telling you.

"I know, I know, Punkers, me too." You gasp out, you're sure this is the most the two of you have ever said to one another during sex and part of you can't help but wonder what the hell this means. You'd like to think it probably means nothing but it's rare for Punk to do something without a purpose, even if he's the only person who actually knows what that purpose is, it will still be there. You'd think more on the topic but your orgasm is no longer something that you can ignore. He comes as unexpectedly as ever, his cum spilling over his hand as his body clamps around you, triggering your own release. As you come down from your high, you're greeted by the sight of Punk wearing your smile and licking his cum from his fingers, fingers that had previously been stretching his tight little hole open for you. You groan, committing the image to memory, knowing that this particular incarnation of your smile will stay with you for a long time. He flops over to lie beside you and tries to tug the towel out from underneath your ass. Now that you've come, your exhaustion has returned tenfold, raising your hips to let him free the towel and attempt to dislodge the blankets from beneath you is almost more than you can manage. He does succeed, however and he pulls the duvet up over you both. You expect him to settle on your chest but instead he pulls you to him. He forces your head to his own chest and rests his chin on top of your damp hair. His hand moves up and down your spine soothingly. "G'night Colt." He says softly. You find yourself unable to answer as sleep rapidly takes over your brain. Your last thought before drifting off is that you have no idea where you're following him to now but at this moment, you don't think you mind.

* * *

To the lovely Ms Bitter-Alisa: Thank you so much for your words and encouragement! Honestly, I know the only reason any of this even showed up in my mind is the glorious Deserving? I blame you entirely! As for the ending, I have a plan, it's open to changing though. This whole thing is kind of based on a situation I found myself in before I moved out to China a few years ago, my equivalent Cabana is still in the UK. I do intend to aim to put some romance in for you, (I am not a romantic at all, I have been dumped for my distinct lack of interest in being placated with flowers and surprise dinners, so it might be distinctly un-romantic romance but I'll try!) and I do intend to give them the much happier ending I ran away from.


	4. Rest Hold

Punk 1st person PoV Warnings for slash, swearing and mild insanity.

* * *

I'm at his front door before I remember that Colt is in Mexico and won't be back for days, which probably means I should go hide out someplace else really. It has got to be weird basically stealing his house for my own, entirely non-nefarious, purposes but other places will come with people, which come with questions and I've fucking had it with people and their fucking questions. So Cabana can deal with me eating his food and using his water whilst he isn't there. It's not like I'll use his bed, that would be rude, the sofa is plenty comfy. He just better have ice cream.

Day 3 of my apartment occupation has been pleasantly spent watching Mexican soaps when I hear the key in the door and the sound of bags hitting the floor. I'm sort of interested to see what he's ganked from his trip south of the border but I'm also perfectly comfy so fuck that. It occurs to me that I'm sitting dressed in my 3 day old pants, his boxers and favourite shirt which I probably shouldn't have borrowed but it's warm and soft from being through the wash so often, I strip the shirt off and stuff it behind the sofa I'm sprawled on, what Colt doesn't know won't hurt him.

"How was Mexico?" I try for nonchalant and pull it off well. After all why the fuck shouldn't I be in his house, he gave me a key; one has to expect me to take advantage of every opportunity that is presented to me.

"Hot. What happened to you?" I glance at him, he looks like me, like shit; bags under his eyes, his hair unwashed, clothes slightly dishevelled, a general air of exhaustion hanging around like flies at a trashcan.

"I didn't duck. Sit down." I answer his question as accurately as possible. I didn't duck, I probably should have but who knew that missing your girlfriend's brother's wedding would result in her throwing a punch at you. Honestly, with the rate of divorce in America, it's not as if it's going to be a once in a lifetime event, I possibly shouldn't have used that as my defence, in hindsight. People get so fucking bent out of shape when you imply that their happy ever after is more likely to be a happy till something better comes along. Colt sort of collapses on to the sofa, in the spot where my feet were, poor fucker, he needs to go to sleep. I put my feet in his lap, he stole their spot, it seems justifiable and get distracted by the tangled love lives of Juan and Juanita.

His thumb rubbing over my ankle is kind of _nice_, it's not something I'm used to, not from him, not from anyone really, I don't usually inspire _nice _in people. I'm possibly part cat given how I enjoy this being stroked thing. It's only when he stops that I notice he's dozing.

"You falling asleep on me?" He jolts like he got caught napping in class and blinks at me stupidly. "I'm just tired." Is a fucking cop-out and I tell his stupid ass to go to bed, even move my feet, aren't I nice? But does he listen, does he hell, he just goes right back to treating me like a fucking kitty. Bout 10 minutes later he lets out a snore. See, I told him he should go to bed; no one ever listens to me. I put my feet on the table and yank him over to me; head in my lap, we'll see how you like being a cat, Cabana. When he _finally_ wakes up, I offer to feed him, hell I even give him the whole sofa so he can have another nap before the pizza guy gets here. Pizza arrives and he seems starving so I palm more than his half off on him, I'm not that hungry and with my fucking lip swollen it's hard to eat pizza without cutting it up into little pieces and I am not cutting pizza up like some fucking fussy little kid.

Once he's done, I send him off to the shower, he fucking stinks and I need to think. He needs something from me; all I have to do is look at him to know he does. He still looks tired despite his nap, he still looks too much like me for my liking, I'm the one rocking the unwashed scruffy homeless look, he's my "nice Jewish boy" friend. I guess Life does get to everyone sometimes. Well, fuck Life and its pinfall attempts. TAG! Motherfucker, you can totally have tag-team Iron Man matches, although does Life have a partner, maybe this is a handicap match. Either way, my partner needs a rest that much is clear and I am the king of the side headlock, the rear chinlock and the sleeper. Life, you better fear me and my fucking rest-holds!

I only notice he's out of the shower when he sits beside me on the bed, my plan, if you can call it a plan, is to return the many favours he's done for me; I like to repay my debts and if he needs his 10 count, well then I'll do my best to help him out. But the idea of _me_ fucking _Colt_, no. That's just not something I think I can do, he's my "nice Jewish boy" friend after all, I wouldn't want to defile him? Not defile, I don't think there's a word for exactly what I mean, profane maybe. This isn't important, Colt is and I need to stop stalling for time.

So I straddle his thighs and look at him. He's got a mildly bewildered expression on his face, kind of like that first time we fucked, only without the tomato impression. He looks about ready to say something, based on that look, it'll be something dumb so I shush him and push him onto his back. I guess normally this is where I'd go for a kiss but if pizza caused me problems, kissing would be a whole hell of a lot worse and he seems to be thinking that kissing is where we should be going. "Can't, hurts." I make a vague flail at my face and try to look apologetic because I like kissing Colt, kissing Colt is _nice_. I can do Eskimo kisses though, he seems content enough with that and I forgot the lube, which is on the dresser, not the bed like where I was going to put it before. Great, Life this is dangerously close to lemons, I also know an array of chokeholds you asshole. I grab the lube, shedding my clothes on my way back to the bed and Colt is looking at me, not just looking but _looking_, like I'm something so fucking special, he's so fucking wrong about that and this is not a train of thought I wish to be on right now Life, back to sex and making Colt feel good.

I've a couple of fingers in my ass, moving them around trying to make it feel like when he does this to me and my other hand around his cock stroking it the way I like, when he says my name followed by "Lemme see." See what, I want to ask him, I'm not sure there's anything to see here, Cabana, at least nothing you've not seen a dozen times before. "Lemme see you fingering yourself." And now I have no idea what the fuck he'd want to see that for, I'm sure it's not overly interesting or appealing but he seems pretty keen on the idea, scooting away and nudging my legs apart. My fingers do not in any way, shape or form feel as good as his, what the fuck does he do to make this feel good, it's just kind of weird and hurts my wrist. Oh fuck this, his cock always feels good, on your back Colt. "Wait!" Okay, seriously buddy, do you want to fuck me or not? This is getting ridiculous, this plan sounded much easier to accomplish at its inception. His finger slides inside me, sending that jolt of something so fucking good through me and my plan can fuck off. His plan involves his fingers in my ass and I'm now quite sure that it's just _his _fingers that feel good in me. He says something to me that I don't hear and his finger is gone, an expectant look on his face would imply that he wants his cock in me so I oblige. Moving down his cock feels different to having him press into me; he feels longer, thicker, still good though, horribly, terribly, wondrously good. I can feel his balls against my ass and I can't catch my breath, he feels so fucking deep, so fucking _good_ inside me, I swear I can feel his pulse he's so far in me. Fuck this feels good. He's moving the hair off my face and _looking _at me again, I'm not sure I can quite deal with this _looking_, so we'll try moving instead and fuck that feels even better. If moving is good, moving more must feel even better, fuck yes, faster is better. He feels huge inside me, being on top of him, riding his cock feels so fucking good, those delicious little shivers of pleasure dancing up my spine, fuck, this is just fucking perfect.

"Hey," What now Colt, doesn't this feel as good for you as it does for me? I am so fucking close to coming and you decide to _hey_ me. "Hey, easy Punkers, slow down." Slow down, how about a nope? Don't be pulling me down for a kiss, Cabana, no kissing till this fucking lip is better. Eskimo kisses; I guess those are okay and stop fucking _looking_ at me like that. That fucking _look_ on his face again, honestly I'm sure that he's wearing it to piss me off and believe me, I would be if he didn't feel so good inside me.

"Again." He bucked up into me as I came down on him and fuck if that wasn't the best feeling in the World. If nothing else he's accommodating to my requests, every time I go down, he goes up. Sex is never usually this coordinated but I suppose it's just another sign that he gets me, now if he'd only stop _looking _at me. Finally his hand moves from the back of my neck and I'm free to escape that _look_, I can feel it on my skin though, his eyes_ looking _at me. His hands take hold of my hips and he manages to be even deeper inside me. Fuck, the deeper he gets the better it feels. "I'm close, Colt." I gasp out, if he won't stop looking, I'll just divert his attention and fuck my hand is covered in cum and his hands are stopping the blood flow to my legs. But who needs legs when I can feel his cum inside me, a little piece of him in me. I've never stopped to analyse why I like that so much, it's something I should probably think of thinking about, that and the _look_. He's smiling up at me with that satisfied grin he gets after he's come and I'm considering my options for my cum-covered hand, the towel or the bed, there's a lot of it and dried cum is not something I want to take to the laundromat, I swear, this cheap bastard needs to buy a fucking washer so I lick my hand clean. If he's not bought one by the next time I'm here, I'm giving him money.

He looks better, he looks thoroughly fucked out, utterly exhausted and completely Colt. With careful manoeuvring, I manage to get him under the covers and he looks at me, a nice normal look, not that fucking _look_, I pull him to me and make myself comfortable with his head on my chest. I, as a rule don't hold people when they're asleep, people drool and snore and fidget and I sleep badly enough without adding drooling, snoring, fidgeting people blankets but this is part of the 10 count, one of my favourite parts, the best part if I'm honest. Colt is an excellent pillow, very comfortable, if I'm even quarter as good at being a pillow, he'll have the best night sleep ever. The angle he's lying at isn't quite right for me to stroke his hair though, the hair stroking is good too but I'll settle for rubbing his back. "G'night Colt." He's asleep before I finish speaking. See that Life, Second City Saints - 1, you - 0.

3am is probably a better friend to me than most people are, it's always there when I need it and it even brings infomercials about amazing devices to make your boobs bigger and the incredible magic ladder; click is the sound of safety. I guess, now would be an opportune time to do all that thinking I have to do.

So, I'm awake, I know you're awake, Life, let's talk about these lemons shall we?

Well, Mr Punk, lemon number one: Colt makes you feel good.

Life, that is hardly a lemon, lots of things make me feel good, pizza, running, pancakes, fucking women. Fucking makes people feel good, Life.

Yes but only Colt makes you feel good by being inside you. Just think how good his fingers feel, how much better his cock feels, his tongue -

Now hold on a second Life, his tongue has never -

Well no, but think about it, it would be all warm and wet and so very strong, the amount of talking he does, just think of it squirming and wriggling, working deeper and deeper inside you. Wouldn't that feel good?

Fuck, yes!

So what are you going to do about it?

Uh, ask him to rim me?

Mr Punk, that is hardly the answer to the question I was asking.

Look, lots of things make me feel good, just because Colt makes me feel particularly good, in a particular way doesn't mean anything.

Fine, fine, ignore me. Lemon two: You like making Colt feel good.

He's my friend, next.

Punk.

**_Next_**.

Lemon three: He _looks _at you like he-

Stop it. He **looks **at me like a friend because I am his friend, his _best _friend. There is no _looking_! Fuck you, Life.

Really, Punk?

Really. No, really. Really and truly. We. Are. Friends.

Well there he is and he's _looking_ at you. So tell him that.

Fuck.

* * *

We'll be back to 2nd person Colt for the next part; I did say a formula. ;) Next part will be written and posted after I spend my afternoon watching the Night of the Living Dead with 40 Chinese uni students. (I get paid to do this, my job = awesome)

**Ms Bitter-Alisa: **I'm a little abashed at how flattered I am by your comments; I definitely am _beyond_ happy you think my smut hot! It's what I was aiming for and worried it might be a little... corny, smut I have discovered is hard to write. As for forcing me into to anything, ha, don't worry I'm sure the only living creature who can make me do anything is Cat and possibly Chestnut lady, some unromantic romance was always on the cards. ;)

**InYourHonour:** Thank you! :)

**Anon:** I totally agree! There isn't enough Colt/Punk in existence! (I totally did a happy dance that you put this in the same category as Deserving? an embarrassing little happy dance)


	5. The more you ignore me, the closer I get

Colt 2nd person pov Warnings for slash and profanity

* * *

You wake when he gets out of bed, you assume he'll be back; sex with you always seems to ensure he'll get a good night's sleep so you simply drift off once more. The next time you wake, you realise that he never returned to the bed. The blankets are still cast aside in the haphazard fashion he left them when he slipped out from underneath you. You pull them straight and pull some boxers on, shaking your head at the little heap of his pants and boxers, which you note are actually your own.

You stumble to the lounge in underwear to find him staring at the shopping channel, an eggcup pressed to his face over his lip-ring. He looks tired and not just from the lack of sleep, his posture, his hair, the way his legs are tucked under him, that he's curled up in the armchair and not sprawled on the sofa, everything about him screams that he's world weary and wants to be left alone. You sit on the sofa and consider changing the channel; you don't give a fuck about Joan Rivers and her god-awful gaudy jewellery. You look at him and stop. He's wearing your shirt, your favourite shirt, the shirt you've had since you were in high school, a shirt you have seen a thousand times, a shirt that is faded and worn and stretched beyond recognition, ugly and frayed at the hem but somehow on him looks different, it looks incredible, like he's marked himself as yours and damn if that isn't a strangely pleasing thought. He looks at you, his eyes bearing an unfathomably odd expression and throws you the remote. He stands and strips your shirt from his body, throwing it after the remote.

"I'm taking a shower." He says, leaving the room. You smile as you clutch the shirt; on his hips are your finger marks, deep, dark mottled purple and blue outlines of your fingers pressed into the pale skin of his flanks.

"I'm thinking of moving." You're sat clutching a cup of coffee when he comes back, hair damp and dressed in his own clothes. He sits back in the armchair, curled in on himself, eyes still utterly unreadable, tugging his sneakers on. You aren't sure how best to reply, you could ask where, you could mention that there's a place a few blocks over that's free, there is always the place across the hall, it's been empty for a couple of months now but you can't quite work out what would be the best thing to say so you settle on a noncommittal "Oh."

"Philly, I think." He says, staring at the TV. "There's more work out there." You stare at him. Leaving, leaving Chicago, leaving his (pseudo)family, leaving his friends, leaving _you_. You want to ask why, it's on the tip of your tongue when he stands and heads for the door. "Don't worry; I'll be sure to put you over to the promoters!" You hear your front door close. You're alone, alone in your apartment, alone in Chicago. Thinking means he's already decided; his mind will have been made up days ago. That's probably why he and his girlfriend fought, after all, what nice girl wants to pack up her life just because her boyfriend wants to move to the West Coast for wrestling. The West Coast, Pennsylvania, Philadelphia, not the Pacific Mid-West, not Illinois, not Chicago, not with you.

You are painfully glad that he doesn't ask you to help him move. You aren't sure you would be of any use, even with all the travelling you do, you are terrible at packing cars, the Monte's trunk and you do not get on. You even have a valid excuse in place, in case he did ask, you agreed to dates in England, a week in Merry Old England. You like England, Punk does not but then again it doesn't stop him from going there if they pay him and liking places doesn't keep him there, he _loves_ Chicago and he left it. You understand, of course you do, it's what you do after all; you understand things, you drift along in the jet stream of CM Punk, understanding, accepting, never arguing, never questioning, just there, like flotsam on a beach after a storm. But you don't see why you should have to move to follow your dreams, like your comedian friends, you don't think they should have to go to LA just to pursue their goals so why should someone have to leave Chicago to pursue wrestling?

You've carefully not thought about the night you got back from Mexico. It's a memory you placed under lock and key, worried that if you do start to think about it, it will be like a scab that you'll pick and pick and pick at, turning it into a scar. You don't think you need any more scars, especially _best friend _shaped scars so you avoid it. You stuffed your favourite shirt in a drawer and forgot about it, you took the bedclothes and towels and boxers to the laundromat, you threw out the egg cups, you don't like boiled eggs anyway. You considered buying a new sofa but then thought that it would be overly extravagant and bought a throw from a thrift store instead and cushions, you bought a lot of cushions.

When you finally get to your hotel, after hours of waiting in the airport and then eating dinner with the promoter and his family and drinking too many pints of bitter, you flop on the bed, bags left in a haphazard pile, shoes still on and pass out.

Your phone wakes you up, you'd been having a hazily remembered dream which judging by the erection you're sporting was pleasant, visions of a long, lean, slightly tanned back stretched out before you, damp blond hair, pretty, pretty legs covered in hair spread, hazy deep green eyes and you stop the thought there and grab your phone. If someone is texting you at 3am it has to be important.

_How's England?_ - Punkers 03:17

_Time difference, Punk - _Sent 03:22

_Shit, sorry!_ - Punkers 03:24

You groan, dropping the phone on the bed. What time is it there anyway; you think it's probably after eleven, early for Punk. You think about texting him back, this is an obvious invitation for conversation, the first you've had since he moved, since he _left_ for Philly. There have been texts, of course there have been texts, there are always texts back and forth between you two, you're _best friends_ after all but they are trivial things, complaints about the lack quality pizza, a story about some passerby on the street, gossip about mutual friends, nothing of substance, nothing as open-ended as this or maybe it's not open-ended at all, maybe he just wants to know what the weather is.

_Did you fall asleep?_ - Punkers 03:48

_We've been booked in a tag match when you get back._ - Punkers 03:52

_I'll come by and pick you up on Thursday. _- Punkers 03:55

_G'night Colt. _- Punkers 04:02

Well, there you go, you think, he did want to talk to you, he had useful information to pass along to you and now you have your information and a date for when you see him next. Thursday is closer than you'd like, it's not like you don't want to see him but a part of you doesn't, a part of you feels betrayed, abandoned, cast aside like an empty pizzabox but it's a stupid, tiny part that has no right to exist, you lay no claim to his body, his heart or his soul, remember. Punk does what is best for Punk, ask every ex he has, ask everyone who he's left behind. He's not selfish, just focussed, you can't resent him his drive, that's not what _best friends _do, _best friends_ are supportive, _best friends_ are happy for each other. You're certain you are sick of _best fucking friends._ You switch your cell off and pull the covers over your head, sleep sounds like the best plan right now, you're still drunk and the bitter is endowing you with its namesake.

But those damn texts, that fucking dream and your god damn fucking cock won't let you sleep. Every time you close your eyes, you see him naked before you, a thousand images of nights you've spent fucking him, his body, his cock, his hole, those pretty fucking legs, his _eyes_, his fucking gorgeous eyes that stare through you, that see you as being worthy of him, his body, his exhaustion, his frustration. Fuck him, fucking fuck god damn CM Punk, him and his stupid soul staring eyes. When you get him alone next you're going to force him to his knees, stick your cock down his throat, fuck it and blow your load right over those fucking eyes of his.

No, no you won't, you know you won't. You'll guide him down gently, stroke his hair, his cheek, run your thumb over his eyebrow, across his lips, nudge them open and slowly guide him to suck you, you'll let him dictate the pace and it'll be slow, he'll be nervous, he'll keep his eyes on yours asking for your approval, asking if he's doing okay and you'll enjoy it, you'll l_ove_ it and he'll do so well. He'll take you deeper slowly, so perfectly slowly, his tongue stud will rub along the vein on your dick and it'll feel amazing. His hand on his own cock will match the pace, maybe he'll finger himself for you, maybe you'll ask him to if he doesn't because that was incredible to watch. Your orgasm will build slowly and when you're close, so close to coming, you'll ask him to come for you and he will, his cum will spill over his long, thin fingers and he'll lick them clean for you, your smile will be on his lips and you'll take yourself in your hand and you'll stroke a few more times, you'll run your nails along your length and stroke a little harder, a little faster than usual and you'll come over his lips as they sit twisted in your smile and as you catch your breath, he'll lick them clean.

You come.

Thursday is four days away you think to yourself, you have four days to sort this shit out, four days to decide what you're going to do, four days to decide if you're going to let this status quo lie, if you're going to be the _best friend_, if you're going to risk being left behind. The only thing you're sure of is you're not leaving Chicago, you won't leave it for wrestling and you certainly won't leave for him.

* * *

**InYourHonour & agd888**: I'm glad you're enjoying it!

**bitter-alisa: **I'm so relived that the last lines at the end didn't seem out of place... Arguing with an anthropomorphised incarnation of Life is something I do on a regular basis and those lines actually were the first part of the chapter that I wrote, by the end I was super worried that they seemed out of place. I look forward to continuing the tradition of posting breakfast fiction. :) Unromantic romance is scheduled for chapter 7, according to the on paper plot layout, but it might move depending on how cooperative my brain is.

**Guest**: I flattered you think my Punk is good! I worry about that, characterisation and consistency are things I worry about.

I so glad that the formula isn't overly jarring. Part 6 early tomorrow I think.


	6. Heel Turn

Punk: 1st person pov Warnings: Profanity, lots and lots of profanity.

* * *

Well Mr Punk-

Fuck you. Don't you fucking start, Life.

Punk.

FUCK YOU.

Coward.

Fuck you.

Witty.

I thought so. I need to concentrate here, Life, so don't you fucking start. I am not a fucking coward, I am savvy. I got an offer I'd be a fucking idiot to turn down.

You didn't tell anyone why you were going though, did you, Mr Punk? You certainly didn't tell Colt before you bailed on him.

Fuck. You. I will tell him when I get settled in and he was tired and-

You're a coward, a yellow-bellied pussy, a selfish fucking brat, a scared little self-centred snake.

_Fuck you_, Life, fuck you. I need to concentrate on driving so I don't get me killed before I get home, home to Philadelphia.

Philly isn-

I thought I told you to fuck off, Life?

The apartment that comes with my job is small, shoebox small, two rooms, if you count the bathroom closet as a room. Trainer, it sounds impressive, head trainer at the Ring of Honor Dojo sounds even more impressive, far from the most impressive job title I've had but impressive nonetheless. The guys I'm training aren't exactly what you could call workers, hell I fucking doubt any of them will make it to the end of the training, never mind actually getting in a ring but fuck it, if they want to pay me, then I'll do it. I remember when Colt and I were training; you could hardly keep us out of the ring. We'd show up early just to get a head start. I guess not everyone is as dedicated as we were, as we are.

He shares, understands your love of pro-wrestling, Mr Punk. He understands _you_, in fact.

Fuck off, Life.

Main problem with these people is they clearly read too many fucking dirtsheets and magazines, I have a reputation, apparently and they want to bask in its reflected glory. They drag me out to eat, to watch them drink, to watch them try and fail at picking up chicks. I don't want to spend time with these fuckers, I spend enough time with them as it is but the only other option is spending time in my shoebox. So I find myself in a bar, surrounded by fucking morons. There's a woman at the bar who's been giving me the eye for a while now. She's, objectively, hot not my usual type but hot all the same, big boobs, blonde hair, and a vapid expression. She's most likely a rat so I could go over there and talk her into my bed easily enough, I'm sure but do I really want her in the shoebox.

Mr Punk, do you really want her hands on you?

Fuck off.

The shoebox isn't exactly the sort of place to bring hot chicks back to. It's not that it's not clean or even untidy, it's literally too small to make a mess in, it's just kind of empty. There's the sofa, that's also a bed if I could ever figure out how to open the fucker, there's a dresser with the TV on top, the fridge/freezer, something that was a top of the range oven in 1964 and that's it. Not exactly what you could call a love nest.

Maybe you should get some cushions, Mr Punk.

Seriously, Life, FUCK OFF.

I tell the guys I'm bailing, as big boobs/blonde hair starts coming over. I'm so not in the mood for this scene.

Wal-Mart at 22:00 on a Sunday night is pretty fucking empty. My cart is also pretty fucking empty, containing one fruit bowl, a bagful of lemons and a vat of ice-cream. The checkout woman looks at me like I'm probably going to rob the store and the urge to pay for my shit with a $100 bill to piss her off comes over me but I exercise restraint and hand her the exact amount. I fucking wish it had been in pennies though, snooty bitch. One day, I am going to be motherfucking famous, one day my fucking face is going to be on billboards, this shitty fucking store, that she'll work in till the day her already over worked heart gives up, will sell CM Punk action figures and I hope she sees those billboards, sees those action figures and I fucking hope she remembers tonight, I hope she fucking remembers thinking that I was just some random unwashed scumbag who wanted to rob her shitty fucking store and I hope she fucking feels like a judgemental bitch for it.

Nothing to say, Life? No moralising bullshit about how that woman has done nothing to me? No? No? Good, motherfucker.

I get off the phone to the promoter just after 23:00. Tag-match, me and Cabana against some guys from his promotion, Thursday night in Bumblefuck Ohio, money is pretty good though, which is always a bonus.

_How's England?_ - Sent 23:17

It's gone before I remember the time difference.

_Time difference, Punk - _Cabanarama DingDong 23:22

_Shit, sorry!_ - Sent 23:24

Nothing back. That's not like Colt. Is he okay? He always texts back, always wants the last word. It's probably why we have such long text conversations. That one that was nothing but the periodic table was fun, who knew texting "k" as a reply would result in spending your afternoon in the library. Maybe he's asleep. Maybe he's hurt. He's probably asleep though.

_Did you fall asleep?_ - Sent 23:48

Nothing.

_We've been booked in a tag match when you get back._ - Sent 23:52

Nothing.

_I'll come by and pick you up on Thursday. _- Sent 23:55

Nothing.

_G'night Colt. _- Sent 00:02

Nothing. He must be asleep. He _has _to be; he wouldn't ignore me.

Would serve you right, Punk.

Don't you start with me, Life, not right now.

If he is ignoring it's your own fault.

I know. I know, okay. I should have told him about the job offer, I should have told him I took it, I should have told him I was moving, I should have done this long before I left, okay.

Well done, Mr Punk. Lemon four: You're an asshole.

Thanks, but I know that too.

_England is cold. - _Cabanarama DingDong 01:46

* * *

**InYourHonour**: Thank you! I'm very happy that you have such a high opinion of my Colt! He's pretty fun to write, much easier than Punk! :D

**Guest 3(?)**: I hope the Punk version lived up to expectations... I worry it might not...

**Ms Bitter-Alisa**: I was holding out for your review, arrogance lead me to hope for its coming, this chapter's been written since I finished work about 2 hours ago & damn it was worth waiting for. :) Colt has balls of steel, I've always thought this of him. For all his nice guy image, dude has fucking _balls_, I just hope to capture them, metaphorically. Angry, angsty and depressing was what I was aiming for, glad I hit the mark! I may have watched too many early interviews with Punk, I think, a least I've not had him think blah, blah, blah yet, which I am sure is all he said in that shoot with Cabana for ROH. I've not read Punk's livejournal, I knew it existed but haven't read it, is it still up? Might be an interesting read. :D

Part 7 will be up soon, however the paper plotline got a little rearrange because Punk refuses to advance storylines as I'd like him to, so (un)romance will be a little later than scheduled.


	7. Starálfur

Colt chapter - 2nd person pov warnings: a little profanity.

* * *

_England is cold. - _Sent 05:46

He doesn't reply. For four days he doesn't text, he doesn't call, complete radio silence, nothing from him at all. Your cell is completely, utterly, terrifyingly silent. The last time you went this long without a text from him was when he fractured his skull and even then you'd get random crazy updates on the dream he had woken up from or total non sequiturs and as your cell sits entirely Punk free, you find yourself rereading all of the random messages you've sent between each other. You conclude that you are both very odd people, in the hands of anyone else these messages would look like the deranged ramblings of a pair of lunatics but they make you smile, make you miss him, make you happy to be his friend, his _best friend._ It all makes you want to write to him again; maybe your message didn't go through.

You don't send anything else though, you want to face him with a clear head if you get into a conversation with him, you won't think things through properly and you want to have a decision made before you see him again, you want a plan of attack but you, like your cell phone, have nothing. No idea what to do, what to say to him, how to break this stalemate, how to explain how you feel to him. You think that you'd like that explained to you as well, how you feel is entirely dependent on something so ephemeral and intangible that you have no clue as to what it is. Your mood changes with the wind, you feel lost one minute, depressed the next, angry, resigned, bitter. You worry that if somehow you don't say the right thing to him when you see him again, this kaleidoscope of misery is the way you'll feel for a long time and you don't like this thought, not one bit.

You're outside your apartment when the bus pulls up, full of your road buddies. He's slumped in the back with the gear. You're greeted by scowls and glares and tinny renditions of punk music via headphones that aren't stopping the noise from escaping. You go to put your bag in the back and take a look at him. His eyes are closed, feigning sleeping; his bags are so bad he looks like the bastard love-child of a bloodhound and a panda. He looks pale, worn out, thin. "In the back there, Cabana." You're told, clearly it has been decided that you're on Punk watching duties, you wonder at what happened on the trip up to Chicago that you're being told to monitor him so soon. You move the bags to clear a space beside him and sit. His leg is pressed against your own, thigh to knee; you can feel the tension in him. Half way through the drive, he relaxes, it's only when his head hits your shoulder that you realise he has fallen asleep. You reach for his cell and turn the music down so that only he can hear it well and you get a very soft rendition of whatever the hell it is he's listening to. You don't know music, not that you don't like it, it's just never been something you were passionate about so you've never known that much about the bands he loves so much. You make some half-hearted attempts at learning about them but unless it's something he's decided, be it a song or a band, you should know, you don't really try. The weight of his head against your shoulder is so wonderfully familiar. This could be any number of road trips you've been on, all of you and gear crammed into the cheapest bus you can find. You think that maybe, you've been over thinking this whole thing, that maybe this is a weird situation you have somehow imagined. When he wakes up, he'll be perfectly fine, well he'll be tired, snappy and violent but everything will be _normal_ and this weird ache you've felt in the pit of your stomach for the last four days will vanish.

You didn't notice you'd fallen asleep until the car stops and everyone is pulling their gear out the back. He says nothing, just heads to the locker room; not taking off the headphones, not talking, avoiding people as much as possible. You try, you try so hard, to catch his eye, to get him to look at you but nothing works. The ache in your stomach gets worse, something is seriously wrong.

The match goes better than you had expected. Your ring chemistry isn't affected by this _thing_ between you and you're grateful for that, at least something is normal, at least something hasn't changed with him leaving for Philly, at least the most important thing between you is still good. In the showers you can't help but glance at his hips, half of you wants to see those bruises there, which is irrational because you know that there is no way for them to still be there, the other half is worried that there will be someone else's fingerprints on him. The thought of someone else putting their hands on him, puts something close to fire in your belly, you'd kill for your smile, you'd probably at least maim for another man's hands on him. His skin is tanned, unblemished and smooth, not a single bruise or hair in sight, it throws you, you're used to the long hairs on those legs, from ankle to groin, long scratchy hair and now they're bare. You aren't quite sure what to make of this, you liked his legs covered in hair, liked the way that hair felt on your skin but not it's gone. No claims though, not body, heart or soul, remember.

The ride to the motel is quiet; he's not said a word beyond planning spots and to the crowd. It's disconcerting; CM Punk is _never_ quiet, never subdued, never without some sort of shit spewing out of his mouth. You're worried.

It comes as no surprise that the room you've been given to share with him is on the other side of the motel; the looks the guys gave clearly said fix him. You would, you truly would fix him if you had any idea what the hell was wrong with him. This isn't a situation you've encountered before, you've weathered Punk's anger in all of its forms, from mild annoyance to Biblical scale wrath, you've seen unhappy, happy, amused, bored, tired, frustrated, a gamut of emotions but never this. You've never seen him so passive; you have no idea what to do.

"I've some dates in Philly." You say hoping for some sort of reaction, you get a slight nod. It's a start.

"You can crash with me." His tone is so completely wrong for him, meek. Meek and mild and not Punkers at all. What the hell happened to him over the last four days? You refuse to think this might go back to _that_ night, you clearly don't mean enough to him for him to tell you he's leaving more than 2 days before he does it and you've fucked a thousand times before that night, sure it was a _little _different to normal but fucking your _best friend _isn't exactly normal in the first place is it and there were never any ground rules laid out between you about what was and wasn't okay.

He strips quickly, shoes, socks, pants, the too big sweater he's wearing, dressed solely in boxers and a faded t-shirt, he gets into bed. You do the same, strip down to underwear, switch off the light and lie under the covers. He's so far from you, curled up on the other side of the bed. You wonder what you should do, he seems so worn down, not in his usual way, some new, strange kind of weight seems to have settled on him and it looks to be crushing him. You want to help him bear the burden but you have no idea how to get him to pass some of it over to you. So you lie in the dark, staring at the ceiling, listening to his soft breathing.

"Punkers," You roll to your side, stroke his arm gently down to that hairless thigh that feels so smooth and soft beneath your hand. "What is it?"

"Don't." His voice is soft and he bats your hand away.

"Punkers." You start again; you catch his shoulder trying to turn him to face you.

"Don't." He snaps this time. He jerks his portion of the covers more tightly around him. "I'm tired. _Good night, Cabana_."

Well, that would appear to be that. He's shut you down and out. Whatever the fuck is going on with him, is apparently not your business, not your concern, it's not your place to help him. All that time you spent over the last four days thinking, planning, plotting, attempting to catalogue your feelings was pointless, a waste of effort. He's moved on, you've been left behind. That night after Mexico was your swansong, your thanks for everything buddy but I'm off to bigger and better things. You haven't been just his friend in so long, not since the early days at the Domain. It's been so long that you're sure you've forgotten how to do it but as you lie staring at the back of his head in the dark, you suppose you'll have a lifetime to remember.

* * *

Thanks for the link to Punk's blog and for giving me the scary revelation that my own mental processes are basically a 2004 CM Punk's... This is quite a scary revelation _but_ I will not complain, especially if it means that I write a halfway decent Punk pov.

**Bitter-Alisa**: I feel like I should be asking you not to cry... I was aiming for depressing here, I may have missed though and if I did yay! I don't need more tears on my head today. It will get better! I promise though! Life has a heart to heart with Punk coming up and Punk's being very cooperative with me today, I think he likes the over-priced tea I got gifted this morning.

**Guest 3**: I'm relieved that Punk didn't disappoint, writing him is at times a little bit of a struggle, he tends to go off on tangents... lots of tangents.

**InYourHonour & ****agd888**: Thank you! All the love you give me is _so_ welcomed! My Punk is coming under some high praise, I only hope he hits the mark next chapter.

Chapter 8 is being written now, so should be up later tonight/tomorrow morning for me, don't know about back there in the past...


	8. Rope Break

Punk: 1st person pov Warnings: profanity

* * *

_England is cold. - _Cabanarama DingDong 01:46

No matter how many times I try to write back, I can't. No matter how many draft responses sit in my outbox; they never go anywhere, Monday morning till now, Wednesday fucking evening, everything from "W_ear a sweater."_, to "D_on't worry, I'll warm you up when you get home. ;)"_ with a winky face.** A motherfucking _winky face_**. What the fuck is happening to me? I do not use winky faces, I use punctuation for its intended purpose, damn it! Not to convey some kind of twee, flirtatious bullshit and since when did I use fucking twee and flirtatious to describe myself? Fuck. I blame you for this shit, Life. Fucking asshole.

I accept no responsibility for your misuse of punctuation, Mr Punk.

Yeah, yeah, yuk it up, motherfucker.

What are you doing with that knife, Mr Punk?

Making a list.

With a knife.

And your fucking lemons.

You're a symbolic little fucker, aren't you?

Fuck you.

So Mr Punk as I recall lemon one was-

Fuck off, the first fucking lemon is pretty fucking obvious, Life.

_**I love Colt**_

There, see motherfucker, I get it. You can stop with the Jiminy Cricket bullshit.

Would you like a round of applause? An award for self-realisation? A ribbon maybe?

Fuck you; I want a fucking embroidered cushion. Lemon two:

_**He loves me**_

You think?

I know. That _look_, the way he kisses me, the way he holds me, the way he fu, actually he's never once fucked me, fucker _makes love _to me. I _know_ he loves me. Lemon three:

_**He makes me feel good**_

Is that still a lemon?

It's on the list because I'm sure I should be having a sexual identity crisis.

Do you want one?

I don't really give a fuck to be honest.

Then three's dealt with, isn't it. What's four?

_**I'm an asshole**_

Ah, well, Mr Punk, that's something you're always going to have to deal with.

Fuck you; I am perfectly fucking charming when I want to be.

You're also an asshole.

_**I'm a coward **_

_**I'm too scared to tell him**_

_**I don't know what he'll say**_

_**What if I'm wrong?**_

Mr Punk, you are scarily good at writing with a knife.

Thank you, Life. Look, I even used the right punctuation.

There aren't any periods.

You're a fucking asshole, you know that, Life. I am trading your fucking ass in for a talking insect.

When they pull up later Wednesday night, why I agreed to come on the whole round trip in the first place is a fucking mystery, at the time I probably fucking thought I'd miss these assholes in Philly but apparently I've not missed them all that much, as the next 15 hours don't sound like too much fucking fun. It does give me time to plan this shit out though. My lemon scented revelations need to be considered properly and 11 hours to Chi-town and then another 4 to Bumblefuck should give me plenty of time to do that.

By the time they stop at Colt's, I have a game plan. The main problem with this plan is it requires impulse-control and I have fucking issues with that. These assholes are testing my patience, what the fuck are they thinking sticking Colt back here with me? I was enjoying my gear fortress of solitude and if he's not sitting beside me, I won't fuck my plan up. No touching, no kissing, no making love till we talk about this, nothing till I explain myself to him and not my fucking fruit bowl.

Life, you are a motherfucking asshole. Colt keeps trying to get me to look at him, can't the fucker just _know_, like he always _knows_, when I need to be left alone? I blame you, Life. If I look at him, if I look him in his eyes, I'll fucking start spilling rambling, half incoherent ravings about fruit bowls and how I love him and I am not doing that here. I am not doing that anywhere but where we're completely alone, where _if_ I am wrong, I'm not going to be fucking humiliated by a bunch of fucking ham and eggers.

The match was fucking hell, not peeking in the shower at him was worse. Jeebus fucking hell, I swear, I need this night over.

"I've some dates in Philly." Perfect!

"You can crash with me." Right, now, I need to get my fucking ass to sleep so we can get to Philly and I can get him in the shoebox and now the fucker is taking off his shirt. Not looking, going to sleep, going to sleep and waking up and going back to Philly and a little peek isn't going to hurt and yeah, I'm not sleeping if he isn't holding me. When he's asleep I'll sneak over, all ninja Punk style.

You know, Mr Punk, there is a strong chance that he might take this whole cold shoulder routine the wrong way.

How can he? He understands me. You fucking said so yourself, Life.

Yes, well... Understanding and being psychic are two quite different things, Mr Punk.

"Punkers," He strokes my arm and thigh with a touch so fucking feather soft and gentle. "What is it?"

"Don't." Fuck that felt nice.

"Punkers." Let go of me, Colt. Do you have any idea how fucking hard it is to keep myself from jumping you right now? We are going to talk this through before we do anything.

"Don't." Damn it Colt, I am not having this fucking _important_ conversation in some fucking random motel in the fucking ass-end of no-where, wait till we get back to my place, fucker. "I'm tired. _Good night, Cabana_." Go to sleep, Colt. _Please,_ just go to sleep. I swear tomorrow, I'll tell you everything but just go to sleep right now. When he finally lets out a snore, I roll him over to his back, my head on his chest.

"Punkers?" He mumbles without waking up, his arms wrapping around me, his lips on my hair. See Life, you motherfucker, that's lemon eight dealt with too.

* * *

**InYourHonour**: I update so regularly to get this out of my head, I miss having only my own thoughts in there. LoL Thanks for the vote of confidence in my characterisation... I hope this one was okay too. :)

**alizabethianrose**: Thank you! :3 All this praise my Punk garners is going to his head a little, I think... I think I am possibly the only person who doesn't need prompting to make updates though! :D

**bitter-alisa**: I aplogise on behalf of Cabana and offer the warning that he's not looking to make things better... But everything is on track for a happy ending which is at this stage all the hope I have to offer. You know, I read your work when I'm supposed to be teaching a class pretty much all the time, several chapters of Deserving? were read when I supposed to be judging debates, relatively important debates, that I should have been paying attention to... I am lucky my boss likes me. :D

Happy Halloween!

I managed to damn near break my nose today, just got back from the hospital, so chapter 9 is as yet unwritten but once my head stops feeling like it might explode, I'll be on it.


	9. Only If For A Night

Colt chapter: 2nd person pov Warning: slash, profanity, epic levels of being an idiot

* * *

You wake up to find him on your chest, your arms wrapped around him as he lies fast asleep. You lie staring at the top of his head. You don't know how you got in this position and if you're honest you aren't sure what position you mean. How you came to have him in your arms this morning, how you came to have this ache in your chest from the knowledge that you're no longer the Punk-whisperer, last night was a clear indication of that, how you even managed to be the Punk-whisperer in the first place. When did it all change from two kids who wanted to be wrestlers, training together, hanging out together, having fun together to this, whatever _this_ is? He makes a soft noise and squirms in your hold, distracting you from your thoughts, you brush his hair gently from his face, he stills and nuzzles at your neck, still asleep.

You need out of this bed, you need out of this room, you need out of this motel, you think that even out of this state might not be far enough. You need time to accept your reduced status, you need time to readjust, to regress, to remember, to forget being more to him and remember how to be less. You try to remember the thoughts of your younger self and all you can come up with is "_This guy is an asshole but he's a really good._" You suppose that is still true, Punk is an asshole but he is really good, good in the ring, good on the mic, good in interviews, good at convincing people that they are more important to him than they are, good at abandoning, good at cutting and running, good at being an asshole.

You slip out from beneath him, shower, dress, pack and get out of the room. You wait in the diner beside the motel where it was agreed everyone would meet. You have no idea how you're going to manage staying at his place, being alone with him if he won't even look at you, won't talk to you, won't act like himself. When he finally appears, he seems to be normal on the outside, he jokes, he snaps with the appropriate amount of bite, he talks; he looks everyone in the eye, everyone but you.

The five hours to Philly you spend in the back with the gear, he elected to drive; every so often you are shot odd looks from the others. You have no explanations for them, you know that normally after they've sent you to be Punk-Whisperer, you are both in a good mood but today you can't manage much of anything, never mind a good mood. You sit and stare at the back of his head, thinking, thinking of what you aren't sure, the words drift through your mind like leaves in the wind. You need to get your shit together, you need to be his _friend_, you need to give up the position you occupied for so long with grace, you can't keep selfishly expecting some kind of an explanation from him. He doesn't do explanations, he doesn't do looking back, he doesn't keep what he doesn't need.

You glance at the rear-view mirror, he is watching you, an indecipherable look in his eyes. You've had so many of those lately, when did you lose your ability to read him? You used to be able to understand every glance, every quirk of an eyebrow, every twitch of his lips and now, his expressions are a foreign language to you. He meets and holds your gaze so easily, it throws you, and then he smiles. That great, big grin he gets when something particularly pleasing has happened.

"Did I tell you?" He says, in a voice loud enough that it's clearly intended for you to hear, "I live beside a Subway." You find yourself smiling back at him in the mirror.

"Well, at least I know I won't poisoned by your cooking." You reply, the expression in his eyes changes and he lets out a bark of laughter.

"Yeah, don't worry, Cabanarama, you'll eat fresh." His eyes turn back to the road and you still find that smile on your face. Maybe being his friend will be okay, maybe you can handle this, maybe you'll stop worrying about this, maybe the feeling in the pit of your stomach will go away one day, eventually, hopefully, maybe.

"Why is your fruit self-deprecating?" You turn the lemon over in your hand several times, craved into peel is the number four and the words **_I'm an asshole_**.

"Stop fucking around in there and help carry this shit up the fucking stairs, fucker!" He shouts at you, standing at the foot of the staircase with the bags of gear and gimmicks you brought, he'd sent you on ahead, with footlongs, soda and keys, to open the door.

You sit side by side on the sofa eating subs and watching old, terrible wrestling, giving your own commentary over the top. It's all so comfortable, familiar, normal, that you think maybe this being his friend thing will be much easier than you thought. He looks happy, you feel, mostly, happy. This is okay, it's not good, it won't be for a while, if ever but its okay and you can deal with it.

"Where do we sleep then?" You can't see you both fitting on the sofa and you won't force him to the floor in his own place.

"This is a bed, apparently." He thumps the sofa cushion.

"Apparently?" He grins at the tone of your voice, and stands, hauling you to your feet.

"I can't get the fucker to open so you get to try and I'll get dinner."

It takes him thirty minutes to get back; it took you twenty-nine to make the bed open out. You also found out that the bulb in this shoebox is blown and Punk, being Punk, hasn't replaced it and hasn't bought a replacement for you to put in. Wrestling the sofa/bed from hell in the light of NJPW tapes was not how you pictured spending your evening but the impressed look on his face makes up for it.

"Well, isn't this romantic." He smirks at you as he sits Indian style on the bed, holding a piece of pizza and staring at the screen. You suppose it could be construed as romantic, there's food, there's soft lighting, a bed. You shake your head at him and grab another slice.

"I see why you keep complaining about this. New York style. Why does this stuff even exist?"

"So Chicago can claim it's superiority over the World of Pizza?" He chucks the box in the general direction of the trash and looks at you, eyebrow raised, the light from the TV casting strange shadows over his face. He swallows his mouthful of pizza and you find yourself wiping your hands on your pants nervously.

"Colt, I." He starts and then smiles, your smile, your fucking beautiful, glorious, perfect smile and you can't help yourself. You catch the back of his neck, brush your nose over his and kiss him. Finally claim the kiss you've needed since that night after Mexico. "Colt." He moans softly as you draw back from his lips, his tongue flicking over them. You stroke his cheek gently, he leans into your hand, nuzzles your fingers. He doesn't seem to be objecting to your actions, so you tug his shirt over his head and press kisses down his throat. "Colt," He says your name with more purpose. You look up at him. He seems at a loss for words, he looks at you helplessly, the feeling in your stomach vanishes, he needs you now, at least, so you kiss him again, taste pizza and Pepsi and Punk. You break the kiss solely to pull your shirt off and claim his lips once more. He moans softly into the kiss, his tongue sliding along yours, as soft and gentle as ever. Why have you never noticed how good it is to kiss him before? He tastes so good, his lips feel so soft against your own, his hands perfect on your back. You kiss down his throat again, nip along his collar bone and flick the rings in his nipples gently. He moans and arches into your touches. "Colt." His voice familiarly soft and breathless. You smile against his neck and nip the skin, worrying a mark there and undo his pants, tugging both them and his boxers off, leaving him naked before you. You stare at him, you have no idea how you manage to forget so many little things about this body before you, the little freckles here and there, the little imperfections, the exact positioning of the tattoos on his arms, the hairlessness of his legs is new though. He squirms and looks mildly uncomfortable.

"I want to try something new." You tell him. He looks at you, trepidation clouding his eyes.

"What?"

"You'll like it, I promise." You say softly, leaning and licking the seam of his lips, rubbing his nose with yours once more. He leans up and takes a kiss from you, when you pull away from him, your smile is back. Your heart gives a lurch, _your smile_, twice already and you haven't done anything more than kiss him. "Where's your lube?"

"Closet," He moans softly, you raise an eyebrow at him, there aren't any closets in this tiny apartment. "Toilet." He clarifies and looks at you with a desperate look in his eyes, you may have only kissed him but he's hard and the knowledge that you did this to him with only some kisses and a couple of touches makes you feel so proud. You rub noses once more and hop off the bed to the toilet closet. You grab the little bottle of lube, half hidden behind the bottle of mouthwash, which gives you an idea so you pour a little of the minty liquid into the toothbrush glass and return to him, setting the glass on the dresser by the TV.

"On your hands and knees." You tell him, he looks dubiously at you. "You'll like it." You repeat and this seems to placate him slightly as he complies with your request. Along with always on a bed, another of Punk's myriad quirks is he prefers to be taken on his back, you have no intention of denying him that tonight but for now you want to try what you dreamt about in London. "Will you stretch you arms out for me?" You ask softly, moving to grasp his right wrist, as you lean over him pressed along the length of his back. He lets you stretch him out easily. You sit back on your haunches and stare. In your dream this was beautiful, in reality there aren't words for it. His long, lean, slightly tanned back stretched out before you, messy peroxide blond hair scattered over the pillows, that tight little ass, those pretty thighs, this is what perfection looks like you think and then he turns his face to the side to look at you with those gorgeous eyes of his, all hazy and deep and dark and his lips, three times and counting and you know this is perfect. You gently part his ass-cheeks, exposing his hole. You blow over it and he makes the softest noise you've ever heard. You smile to yourself, your dream Punk had been much louder than this but you had gotten further than just looking. You lean forward and lick along his taint, lick over his hole and feel him shiver beneath you. "See, feels good, right?" You ask him, lean back a little to see his face, a blush riding high on his cheeks.

"Colt." He whines softly and you lick again, tapping your tongue against him and slowly push inside. You aren't sure you _like _the taste but the noises he's making, the way his body is trembling beneath your hand, pulsing around your tongue, these are things you like. "Colt, please more." He gasps. You grab the lube and pour a little into your hand, covering your fingers and slide one inside. Always, always so tight. He makes another soft whine as you work him open carefully with fingers and tongue. "Please, Colt." He squirms beneath you and you leaning back, push his hip gently. He takes the hint and flops on to his back. "Please, please, please. Colt, I _need _you." He looks half ruined already, his hair damp, his face flushed, chest raising and falling rapidly. You smile at him softly and stroke his cheek.

"You're so close already, huh?" He looks at you with that odd look from that night and you smile, you don't want to start trying to decipher that look. You lean to kiss him and his nose scrunches up. He makes an odd noise and you chuckle at him, grabbing the glass of mouthwash from the dresser swilling it around your mouth as you shed your pants and underwear, spitting it back into the glass. "Better, all minty fresh." You smirk at him as he lies there and just _looks_ at you, chest heaving, sweat glistening on his skin in the light of the TV. "You are so fucking-" You trail off as you lean over him once more, you aren't sure if you're allowed to say that to him, if you're allowed to tell him how fucking beautiful he is. You think that perhaps, one of the many times in the past, you should have established some sort of framework for how this thing works between you, it would have spared you a lot of trouble over the last few days.

His legs wrap around you, the lack of hair is disconcerting, perhaps not unwelcome but it is conspicuous by its absence.

"Kiss me, fucker." He looks at you again, that strange look that is beginning to send shivers down your spine. So you kiss him and slide inside in one long slow stroke. You wait for him, as you always do but this feels different even if from the outside it looks the same, on the inside, your stomach is filled with something new, your heart feels strange. "Colt, please." He squeezes your waist with those pretty legs of his; you smile and slowly begin to move. He seems so vocal tonight, you wonder if this is because you are in his place but you've fucked in his bed before, not this bed but other beds he's owned, maybe it's for a thousand reasons you don't care about now as he tightens his legs around you again and bucks up into your thrusts. You keep the pace slow and steady, even when you wrap your hand around him, you stroke him slowly, lightly, teasingly. He doesn't complain, he only moans softly, your name on every other breath.

"I'm close, Punkers, come with me, please." You place gentle kisses on his face as you talk, resting your nose against his when you're finished.

"I know, I know. I will, just don't stop." His words wash over your face on soft warm breaths. You smile at him, rub his nose with yours and keep moving your hips. You feel his orgasm a second before he comes and you feel your own almost fully synchronised. As you come down from your high, you lie with your head tucked in the crook of his neck and worry at the mark you left there a little more, before pulling back and out from him. He's smiling at you, your smile and without thought you kiss him again, when you pull back he chuckles softly, had it been anyone else you would have said it was a giggle really but CM Punk does not giggle.

"What?" You ask him softly as you flop onto your back and tug him to you. He looks up at you from his spot on your chest; suddenly he leans up and presses a fierce kiss to your lips. He looks you straight in the eye, his expression unreadable; he opens his mouth to speak, when he yawns instead. He settles his head back on your chest.

"I'll tell you in the morning, I promise." His voice is soft and mumbled with sleep, before he drifts off you hear him mutter something but it was too soft to hear what. You fall asleep stroking his hair gently.

His apartment is freezing. Once you wake a few hours later, you're too cold to sleep, even with him wrapped in your arms, all warm and soft and so very smooth. You have no idea what is going on here, not even an idea of if this is the last time you'll get to hold him like this, if this was all just some horrible accident that he'll never want to speak of again or if this is the start of something else, something _more_. That thought sends a rush of something like adrenalin through you, you think you should think on that but the thoughts won't form in your mind, for all your being so concerned with this, at the moment you're feeling comfortable with thinking nothing of any great importance. You lazily survey the little room he lives in; your eye is caught by the fruit bowl once more. The **_asshole _**lemon sitting on top of the fridge where you left it. You gently move him from his spot on top of you and tuck a pillow in your place. He nuzzles it and makes that soft little sleepy noise you know from nights when you've held him and have to get up to use the bathroom and done the very same thing. You stroke his hair to soothe him back fully to sleep and pull your clothes back on; it's too cold to sit in this little room without the extra layers.

You pick a lemon from the bowl, rolling it between your hands, on one side there is the number five and the other bears:

**_I'm a coward_**

So this is what was wrong with Punk yesterday, well two days ago now you suppose, its well after midnight now. He and his fruit bowl, which appears to contain nothing but lemons, were having a heart to heart. You grab another one, number three:

**_He makes me feel good_**

Your heart freezes. Number two:

**_He loves me_**

Who is he? Three left, you pick up another lemon, number eight.

**_What if I'm wrong?_**

"Colt, what you doing? Come back to bed. It's fucking cold and I need to talk to you, fucker." He looks _so_ beautiful, eyes hazy, blankets pooling around his hips, his hair a mess and your smile, if it is _your _smile. What were you thinking? Him and you, no. Why would _he_ want something more with _you_? Why would _he_ want _you_?

"Who is he?" You demand of him, he looks at you, confusion written clearly on his face. "Is that what you want to tell me? Who the fuck was I _practice_ for?" You scream, vibrating with rage and start hurtling the lemons at him.

"What number is that?" He shouts back at you, he looks at the fruit you've flung at him. "Its number one isn't?"

"The fuck does it matter?"

"Read it, fucker!" He looks at you pleadingly.

"Fuck you! Why the fuck should I do anything you te-"

"Read it!"

"I don't fucking _care_ what your fucking stupid fucking lemon says! You used me. You fucking _used_ me as _practice_ for _someone_ _else_!"

"FUCKING READ IT SCOTT!"

"FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING WHORE!" He freezes his face blank.

"_Get out._" He snarls at you, voice low and soft and so horribly _dangerous_. You've seen this face before, from the other side, usually before he launches himself at someone with the intent to do grievous bodily harm, you've never had it turned on you, never thought you ever would. This is how far apart you have become, this is how broken your friendship really is. He looks ready to kill you.

"Gladly." You grab your bag, stuff your feet into your sneakers and slam the door behind you.

You are about three blocks from his place when you remember the fucking lemon in your hand. You contemplate throwing it away but you don't. It's number one, like he guessed.

You turn it over and stop.

You want to throw up, you want to cry, you want to back and apologise, you want to go back in time and stop this whole _thing_ from happening. Carved into the side of that lemon are three words, three little words that change _everything_.

**_I love Colt_**

* * *

**alizabethianrose**: I'm glad you enjoy Life, it's easily my favourite character! :3 I'm going to have to screw my courage to the sticking place and actually review _Twisted Seduction, _I think! :D

**Guest**: Thanks for the concern! I'm mostly okay now, headache is at reasonable levels. Yeah... Inner Punk is gonna need some cuddling after this...

**InYourHonour**: Glad Punkers was okay! :D I'm so grateful for your reviews, they're like little rays of sunshine. :)

**bitter-alisa**: And back to depressing? With a brief detour to smutsville... I feel like I should be apologising even more on Colt's behalf... It's my theory that Punk is perfectly able to deny anything till the cows come home, but once he's decided it's a problem he'll deal with it and not addressing the whole _love_ issue was clearly becoming a bit of a problem for him, so it was dealt with with ruthless efficiency and the mutilation of helpless citrus fruit.

I willing to bet this one will have blindsided some of you but believe it or not we're actually still on course for that happy ending, and the end she is nigh.


	10. Winner by Submission

Punk chapter: 1st person pov warnings: **PROFANITY**

* * *

Mr Punk, are you going to answer it?

...

Mr Punk?

...

Punk?

...

Phillip, answer the fucking phone! Or throw it against the wall that seems reasonable too.

Fuck.

Yeah.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckingfuckfuck.

It'll be-

Fucked. Fucking fucked.

How the fuck did I fuck this up? I should have fucking told him last night, I should have fucking told him instead of staring at him like a fucking moron.

Like someone in love, Mr Punk.

A FUCKING MORON. Love, fuck. Fuck! This time yesterday we were having banter, only a little banter but _bante_r all the same, we haven't had banter in so fucking long. Fuck, I fucked this up. I should never have started this. I'm never going to have banter again. I should have just dealt with my own shit and not force it off on him.

Fuck him, fucking asshole! How fucking dare he call me a fucking whore? Fuck him! Fucking cunt, fucking self-righteous asshole!

I shouldn't have let him kiss me, I can't ever _think_ when kisses me. Fuck, he's never going to kiss me again; I'll never have his hands in my hair, on my face again. Fuck. I want him to kiss me again. I want to not be able to think because all I can taste, all I can smell, all I can _feel _is him. Fuck, I'm an idiot. How the hell did I ever expect this to turn out right? How in the hell did I think _you _wouldn't screw me over.

"PUNK! OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!" He's here, fucking banging on my fucking door. Fuck off, just fuck off Colton; I have _nothing _to say to you. "PHIL OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR, FUCKER!" I can't do this now, I can't. Give me some time; let me think about this, Scott. Colt, just go, pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease just go away.

Where are you going, Mr Punk. Are we answering the door? No? Okay, the bathroom and I don't think punching the mirror is going to help, Punk.

Shut up! You just fucking shut the fucking hell up! You aren't helping.

He's still out there you know. Hear him talking? This is probably something you should be listening to, Mr Punk.

I don't fucking care. I don't care. I don't want to hear anything he has to say to me. I'm a fucking _whore_ after all. How fucking _dare_ he call me that? _WHORE!_ I am not a fucking whore! How fucking dare he belittle me, my feelings, by accusing me of using him as _practice_. I fucking loved him.

Love him, Mr Punk.

Look, I don't want to talk to you right fucking now.

You do know that this is basically talking to yourself right?

I'm not fucking insane, I know.

Really? You just punched a mirror and you talk to yourself, clearly the hallmarks of sanity.

Fuck, it all seemed like it was going right, he looked happy. He _kissed_ me, he _looked_ at me, he fucking looked at me like I was something important, like I was the most fucking important thing in the World, like if he had to choose between me and the Fed, he'd choose me. Fuck, I've lost him, gone forever, nothing, not friends, not _best_ friends, nothing. He's never even going to glance at me again, never mind _look_ at me.

He's still out there.

What the fuck do I say to him? No, Colt, I'm not a whore, I'm an idiot, I'm in love with you, I think I've been in love with since the first time you held me in my sleep, I'm a fucking coward who never had the courage to tell you, I'm a fucking asshole who assumes that you understand me when clearly you don't and I'm sorry. For all I know, he might want to punch me in the fucking face, who the fuck wants to find out their _best_ friend is in love with them? Who the fuck wants to find out that their fuck buddy wanted more than just a fuck?

He loves you, though, remember?

Does he though? I thought he understood me, I thought I understood _him_ but obviously I don't. I don't understand the first fucking thing about him, clearly. What the fuck was I thinking assuming that he'd get that I wanted more? Fuck, just because _I_ think in a bed, the missionary position is the standard for romance doesn't mean everyone else agrees. He was probably just fucking humouring me. The fucking asshole was probably just using me to get off. He's the fucking whore, not me!

Mr Punk?

I was so sure, so fucking sure I was right. I was so fucking sure that this wouldn't blow up in my face, that I was going to get this one thing right.

Punk?

I never do though, I always fuck things up. Always the things I want to be true the most, they're the ones I'm the most wrong on.

Punk, Phil?

Always so fucking blind to the truth.

Don't cry, Phil, it'll get better.

I was so fucking _sure_ he loved me.

* * *

**bitter-alisa**:Colt was an idiot but he'll get better, we're on the home straight now, he's going to sort things out, eventually. I don't think this is as angsty as I wanted it to be to be honest. :-/ Thank you for the compliment to my smut... I was kind of worried that rimming might turn some people off when I was reading it through. I'm inspiring? Me?! :D Yay! :3

**Guest**: I think the Punk chapter may be a little bit of a let down. No matter how I wrote it I couldn't get him to do an alternate track to chapter 9, so we just went with the aftermath. (I do like Punk in chapter 9, he was fun to write.)

**InYourHonour**: A few well choosen words can be worth more than an entire novel, as a reviewer I write novels (ask** bitter-alisa**) and sometimes I think they get a little much. Your little reviews never fail to make me smile! Especially as you were the first person to review this story, I was completely sure no-one would even look at it, so you have a special spot in my mind.

**agd88**: Thanks for the encouragement! Hope it lives up to expectations!

**alizabethianrose**: Gimme a bit, it's a long story, its going to take me making notes to review Twisted Seduction properly! Thanks for your words of encouragement and praise, I'm super flattered! Although don't read this at work! I don't want people getting fired because of me!

The original write-up of this chapter, started at 07:00, was much longer but after several hours of editing, rewrites, cigarettes and hot water, it got striped down to under 1000 words, at 17:27. Punk chapters are _hard_ work.

As I said the end is nigh, so if anyone has any requests or suggestions for what I should do once I'm done here, I'll take them because as of right now I have nothing! :D


	11. Yearning

Colt chapter: 2nd person pov Warnings: Profanity, epic levels of procrastination as a concession to time

* * *

_**I love Colt**_

He loves you.

CM Punk loves Colt Cabana.

Phil Brooks loves Scott Colton.

_He_ loves _you_.

He _loves_ you.

And you, you called him a whore, you accused him of using you as practice for someone else, you insulted him, his feelings, his integrity, his beliefs. Those indecipherable looks, you've never seen them before, only you have, the only other thing he gets that look for is wrestling, the only thing he loves. Fuck, how long has he looked at you like that, how long did you mistake it for gratitude, how long has he been in love with you, how long have you been so blind to him?

You dig your phone out of your pocket and call him. It rings and rings and trips to voicemail. You hang up and try again. You call all the way back to his place. You stand in front of his door and hear nothing but the sound of his phone ringing; it's interrupted by a crash. You expect that was his phone being violently introduced to the wall.

"PUNK! OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR!" You bang on the door, you shout as loud as you can. "PHIL OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR, FUCKER!" You need to talk to him, you have no idea what you're going to say but you need to see him, you need to apologise to him, you need to, you don't know quite what you need to do but you need to make this right. You hear shuffling sounds from inside that little shoebox, coming closer to the door and then away. You guess he's gone to the toilet closet and then another loud crash. You bang on the door again. "PUNK! OPEN THE DOOR! PLEASE! FUCK, LET ME IN!" You slide down the door, knees hitting the floor, forehead resting on it. "Phil, I am so sorry. I didn't know. I was so scared, so worried, so fucking stupid. I didn't know, Phil, I had no idea. If I'd known. Fuck, I don't know Punkers. If I'd known, if I'd known, I don't know. I wouldn't have. I don't know, Punkers. I have no idea what I feel. I have no idea how you can love _me_. Look at me; look at what I've done to us. You left and I was so scared that you were going to be leaving me and I don't want that, I never want that, I want it to be Punk and Cabana forever. I don't want to lose you, Punkers. Is that love? I need you to tell me. I have no idea, I just, I don't know Punkers. I just, I don't want to lose you." The little room is horribly silent. You haven't any words left. Your eyes burn with tears as you kneel, head pressed to the door wanting nothing more than for it to open, there is nothing in the World you can think of that would mean more to you than that door opening, even if all he does is knee you in the face at least you'd be able to see him. You aren't sure how long you stay there, you know it's long enough for his neighbours to decide that it's safe to try and walk past you. You suppose that they think you're drunk. You wish that were the case, that you could blame something else for this mess but it's on you. You did this.

You blow the matches you're booked in off, you're in no shape to wrestle and catch a bus back to Chicago. Your cell has been blowing up with messages ranging from where _the fuck are you_ to _tell Punk to answer his fucking phone_. You don't reply; you don't have the words you need to reply.

You go back to your apartment and set the lemon you've cradled like a child all the way from Philadelphia back home, to Chicago, on your coffee table.

_**I love Colt**_

He loves you. He was so sure that he loved you, he carved it into a citrus fruit but how do you feel about him. You spent all this time trying to work out his motivations, his feelings, the reasons behind his actions and now you know. He loves you. He came to you all those times because he loves you, he fell asleep so quickly in your arms because he loves you, he let you fu- have s- make love to him because he loves you, he smiled that beautiful, perfect smile at you because he loves you. So the question you have to ask yourself is how do you feel about him? Do you love him? You know that you don't want to be without him, you know that you hate idea of not being able to see him, to make him laugh, to touch him, to sit on your sofa stroking his ankle, to lie in bed with him in your arms stroking his hair, to kiss him, to make love to him, to see that smile. Is that love? Would you be happy to wake up every morning to a mouthful of peroxide blond hair and his breath on your neck? Would you be happy to come home to find him in your favourite shirt sprawled across the sofa? Would you be happy to endure his mood swings, his irrational, random actions, his myriad quirks? The ache in your stomach spreads to your heart.

He loves you and you, you _love_ him.

And you shattered any hope you may have had of telling him that.

The first time you see him after Philadelphia is a month later at some show in the elbow of nowhere. He looks about the same as he did in that bus on that Thursday, so very tired, so painfully drained but he's acting normal, normal for him at least and you have no idea how he can manage to do so. You want to grab him and drag him off somewhere, you want to fall to your knees and beg him for forgiveness, you want to confess and even if he throws it back in your face, you'd rather that than this painful purgatory he's sent you to. You know he's gotten a new number, you managed to sweet talk it out of a promoter and every night you've added another unsent message to your outbox. You don't want to confirm that he'll just ignore you.

"Cabana!" He shouts at you, strides over and grabs your wrist. "I need to talk to you." He drags you to an empty room. Where his hand meets your flesh burns, you've missed his hands on you. If he's dragging you away, he must want to talk, hope fills you, you can explain, you can tell him that you love him as he loves you and if all that happens is you do get that knee to the face at least you won't have to keep holding everything in.

"You listen to me and you listen good, you fucking asshole." He snarls at you, eyes burning. "You will not phone me, you will not text me, you will not write to me, you will not speak to me, you will not even _think_ of me, unless it is directly to do with work. We aren't friends, we aren't allies, we aren't comrades and we sure as fuck aren't _partners _anywhere outside of wrestling. For every one of those _people_ we call _friends_ nothing has happened between us. You will be you and I will be CM Punk, until I get the fuck out of the fucking little leagues and when I do, you will be _nothing_ to me." His voice is a poisonous little hiss, _hatred_ burns in his eyes as he stares you down. You need to tell him quickly, you need to get it out there.

"But Punke-"

"Do you understand me? You are _nothing _to me." His hand squeezes your wrist painfully as he talks, you manage a nod. "Good." He turns on his heel and leaves you alone. This is your fault. You were so worried about being left behind, about being abandoned that you didn't realise that you were cutting yourself off, you were throwing up the walls, pushing him away, doubting him, keeping him at a safe distance so you didn't get hurt and so instead you hurt him, you did _this_ to him, made him this way, you destroyed _everything_. There is no-one to blame but yourself, he did nothing to you, he loved you and now you are _nothing_ to him and you, you love him still. You seem to be spending a lot of time sitting on floors lately, you think as you choke back tears.

For months, so many months you've lost count, you have been going to the same little grocery store near your place, every week buying the same thing. You need this to be perfect so you've been practicing, practicing and getting better, it seems like this is the only thing in your life that is getting better. He's in Philadelphia, you're in Chicago, you see him so rarely it's easy enough to acquiesce to the demand he made of you in that locker room so very long ago, well over a year, painfully closer to two if you are honest but you've both thrown yourselves into work, wrestling anywhere and everywhere. You to distract yourself from him and Punk, you aren't sure why, maybe to get out of the little leagues like he said.

You remember when he and Joe were awarded a five star review by Meltzer in the Observer. You remember texting him, telling him how proud you were, how impressive the match had been, how good he had looked despite being hurt and getting nothing back, no acknowledgement, nothing. It hurt then and it still hurts now but it's your fault he ignores you.

You've done interviews together, promos, matches, a thousand things where you have to pretend to be his friend; to be his _best_ friend and it makes your heart ache, to sit beside him, laughing, joking, being what everyone thinks you are. You long for them to be right, you long for the inside of this _thing_ between you to be the same as the outside but it's not, it's broken. It's all jagged edges and sharp corners and it's all your fault.

When you were asked how his tryout with the WWE went and you had to laugh and say "Do you really think Punkers would say anything before he knew for sure?" You didn't even know he'd had a tryout. You guess he's found his way out of the little leagues, if he's mentioning it to people, he thinks it's gone well. Time is running out, you need to make your move.

As you leave the Post Office, you feel strange, a feeling you've not felt in a long time, in nearly twenty months. _How can you have let this go for so long? _You feel _hope_. You finally went for the tag; your only hope is that he's still on the ring apron waiting.

* * *

If you aren't already reading it, you _need_ to check out **Enemy Mine** by the epic **bitter-alisa**

I feel the need to explain the titles of each chapter, I'm sure you've noticed (if you've looked) that Punk's are all wrestling terms but Cabana's are kind of random, they are usually just the last song I was listening to when I finished the chapter, bar this one, for this one I was studiously listening to Yearning by Mono the whole way through, this is in no way a suggested listening, it more of an observation the awesomeness of Japanese post-rock (still not as good as my homegrown post-rock, but Mogwai are the greatest band ever, yes my taste in music is a little rubbish).

We are looking at three more chapters by the way. - I say three but really it's two and an epilogue.

Requests/suggestions/ideas all gratefully accepted. ;)

This chapter is subject to editing, I'm drunk and running ahead of schedule, thanks to certain individuals who are awesome this is being posted now and I will likely tweak tomorrow morning so feel free to point out typos, missing commas, split infinitives and everything else I've missed. - I checked it over... Good Gravy! Drunk!Editing = Bad!Idea

**bitter-alisa**: Get better! Awesome review was awesome! It's weird but I've become rather attached to Life myself, I miss them when this is over.


	12. Kayfabe

Punk chapter: 1st person pov Warnings: Profanity (a surprisingly small amount for Punk.)

* * *

I need to buy a new cell. The mirror isn't important; I should wrap my hand. It's still bleeding. I'll have to remember that mirrors win fistfights. The first thing I need to do is get the fuck off the floor and shower and get dressed. No-one will sell a naked man covered in blood a cell phone. If the sim's okay that'll save me the hassle of emailing prompters, better check that. Shower first.

Cell phone store clerks are assholes, I just want a phone to be able to make calls and send texts.

_Delete Contact_

_Cabanarama DingDong_

_Yes No_

_Edit Contact_

_Cabanarama DingDong_

_Colton_

_Confirm Edit_

_Yes No_

_Contact Saved_

_Colton_

_I've a new number ###########_

_Please update your contacts,_

_CM Punk (Phil Brooks)_

_Send to all Contacts_

_Yes No_

No. I'll send it individually, it'll save time.

Mr Punk, you need to think about this, you _need _to deal with this.

No, no, no. No, I don't. I need _rid_ of this. I need to concentrate. How can I be the best in the World if I'm sitting moping around like a fourteen year old? I'm a wrestler, a fully grown man, not a sobbing schoolgirl who just got dumped.

Mr Punk, this isn't a healthy approach to this. You're hurt, you need time to heal.

So, I'll work hurt. I do it all the fucking time. This is nothing more than an injury. It will get better.

It will get better, Phil but not if you ignore it.

It will get better and don't call me Phil.

"Cabana! I need to talk to you." Where to do this, somewhere quiet; somewhere close enough that he won't make _another_ scene. I do not need be the talk of the locker room as well as of my apartment building. Here, this room is empty, it'll do.

"You listen to me and you listen good, you fucking asshole. You will not phone me, you will not text me, you will not write to me, you will not speak to me, you will not even _think_ of me, unless it is directly to do with work. We aren't friends, we aren't allies, we aren't comrades and we sure as fuck aren't _partners _anywhere outside of wrestling. For every one of those _people_ we call _friends_ nothing has happened between us. You will be you and I will be CM Punk, until I get the fuck out of the fucking little leagues and when I do, you will be _nothing_ to me."

"But Punke-" Oh no! You don't get to talk, asshole, you get to listen.

"Do you understand me? You are _nothing _to me. Good."

I doubt this is a good idea, Mr Punk.

Be quiet.

If nothing else he's accommodating to my requests, he doesn't call me beyond relaying work messages, the only texts I get are similarly themed, he only talks to me about spots, the only emails I get are forwarded ones from promoters. He does exactly what I wanted.

If it's what you wanted, Mr Punk, why do you check your cell so often?

When we're together in front of _friends_, it's easier than I expected. I thought that living my life as a work would be hard but it's not, it's so very easy. He looks at me sometimes, though, looks entirely too long to be just looking but I don't know him, I don't know him at all, so who knows what he's _looking_ at me for.

_I saw the match & review. I'm so fucking proud of you, Punkers. How's your back? Look after yourself. - Colton 09:48_

_Delete message_

_Yes No_

_FUCK YOU_

_Send Reply_

_Yes No_

_Thanks._

_Send Reply_

_Yes No_

_I'm sorry, Colt. I miss you. Talk to me._

_Send Reply_

_Yes No_

_I love you._

_Send Reply_

_Yes No_

Are you ever going to reply to that, Mr Punk?

I will, when I can find the time.

The longer this work keeps going the more improvements I see, from obvious things like how seamlessly we pretend to be Colt Cabana and CM Punk lifelong buddies, to things I never thought would be affected like my ring work, my promos, my ability to stay in character. Every little thing, I'm getting better at and one day I'll be the best.

Losing to Val Venis on Sunday Night Heat is not an auspicious start but it's mine.

All this improvement is paying off; my tryout went well I know it did. There was talk of them drawing up a contract, talk of working for them, working for the WWE.

_I saw the match & review. I'm so fucking proud of you, Punkers. How's your back? Look after yourself. - Cabana 09:48_

_I got a tryout with WWE, I think it went okay._

_Send Reply_

_Yes No_

The contract arrived two days ago. I have an idea for how I want to go out of ROH. It's just an idea but I'll run it past Gabe. I think, I _think_ it could be good.

_I saw the match & review. I'm so fucking proud of you, Punkers. How's your back? Look after yourself. - Cabanarama DingDong 09:48_

_I got a tryout with WWE, they offered me a contract. I think I'm leaving in August._

_Send Reply_

_Yes No_

You're really going to leave it all like this, Mr Punk?

What do you want me to do, Life?

Talk to him.

And say what? Hey Colton, you remember how two fucking _years_ ago, I was all leave me the fuck alone, don't you ever speak to me again and then you actually went ahead and did just that. Yeah, I was angry and hurt and upset and I have spent pretty much all this time pretending that I'm okay and that I'm fine without being your friend and I'm not. I am really, really, really not. Please talk to me, I don't care what you say, anything, just _talk_ to me. Oh and remember that lemon? I'm guessing you read it or you wouldn't have come storming back to the shoebox; remember how it said _**I love Colt**_? Yeah, I still do. Crazy, isn't it? Crazy, that I've spent all this time being in love with you and not mentioning it, crazy, that I told you that you were nothing to me when you're _everything_, crazy, that I am such a fucking coward that I can't even reply to a text that I've read every day for the last six months. Crazy is exactly what I think I may be, Colt.

Who the fuck is at the door? No fucker comes to my door, ever. UPS?

"Mr Brooks? Sign here."

The fuck? Who the hell is sending me boxes in the mail? Terrorists surely have better targets than me, maybe it's the IWC? Postmark's Chicago?

Open the box, Mr Punk.

What the actual fuck?

Well, you're both symbolic little fuckers, aren't you?

* * *

**InYourHonour**: Glad you're still here! Have fun on business!

**agd888**: Glad you're still here and enjoying it. Hope it continues. :D

**Guest**: Chapter 10: Sorry for the heartbreak. I'm relieved that you liked it as just the aftermath, the full version was wordy. Punk often gets away from me. Chapter:11 Yeah... I had the timeline mixed up about when Punk went to be trainer at ROH... So Colt got to engage in some incredible procrastination. Thanks for the note about your likes, every little helps! I have some ideas kicking about in my head but they require research and education.

**bitter-alisa**: Chapter 10: Poor Punk! Don't kick him! Well maybe a little... He probably needs it. Life is a bitch, it's just a fact. It does redeem itself somewhat though. Hope your feeling better! Chapter 11: Wanting to send virtual hugs to Colt is something I am horribly familiar with... He really isn't the sharpest knife in the drawer at times, bless him. :3 Ha! I knew you'd get the wrestling terms, these actually made reigning Punk in much easier... I totally agree with you on chapter titles, I just wish I had put a little thought into the Cabana ones, given my love of power ballads, he's lucky to have avoided Total Eclipse of the Heart as a title...

So, one proper chapter left, I think, which turning out to be infinitely more sappy and romantic than it sounded in my head and looked on paper. I'm halfway through it but am so behind on wrestling and AHS that I am giving myself the evening off to catch up somewhat. It'll be up tomorrow I think. Then the epilogue which I am still fighting myself about, the last line of it is written, its just everything else I need.

Suggestions, ideas and requests gratefully received. :)


	13. Love is like a Brick

Colt chapter: 2nd person pov Warnings: profanity and sappy, sappier than the sappiest tree in the woods.

* * *

The knock at the door wakes you up; you were sleeping on the sofa. You always seem to be sleeping there, these days. Your bed brings back too many memories, too many times you've seen him in it, on it, spread before you, waiting for you. Every time you look at that bed, and all you see is that smile, _your_ smile on his face and love burning in his eyes.

Another knock, louder this time. You glance at your cell, 02:00, who the hell would be knocking on your door at this time, you stare at the ceiling and contemplate ignoring it, when there's a bang instead. Whoever it is sounds insistent, sounds like the last thing they are going to do is stop, you drag yourself off the sofa and shuffle to answer it.

He's standing there, fist raised to knock again. He looks tired, you think but he always looks tired and beautiful, always so very beautiful. He raises an eyebrow and you step aside to let him in. He toes off his shoes and sits Indian style in the armchair. You sit nervously on the sofa, watching him, waiting to see why he's there.

"I got your letter." He throws you the lemon you sent him in the mail. Your heart pounds in your chest. "I." He starts and looks at you, helplessly. You grab your phone, open the outbox folder and toss it to him. In it there are messages, lots of messages. "How many are there?" He says softly.

"One for every day." He looks at you and you meet his eyes, hold his gaze. "One for every single day you aren't mine." You tell him. He looks back down at the phone in his hand.

"Every day?" He asks softly.

"Every day." You try to make your voice sound calm and confident but your heart is pounding like you've just wrestled ninety minutes.

"Fuck." He's clicking through each message but every one is the same, well a little different, the canvas changes, the backgrounds change, the quality of your writing changes but still every single _message _is the same. A photograph of a lemon with _**I love you**_ carved into the peel. "Every single day." His voice barely above a whisper, thumb still clicking through the pictures. You watch him, the longer he sits there, clicking, the more confident you feel, his eyes grow softer with every click; his face relaxes more, the tension in his posture leaves. "The first one was pretty shit." He finally says. "You got better." You stand and walk to your kitchen.

"I've not taken a photo of today's one yet. What'd you think?" You throw it to him but it bounces off of his chest as he launches himself at you, wrapping his arms tight round you.

"Fucker, you should have told me sooner. Fucking wasting all this money." You want to laugh at him, typical Punkers, thinking of the monetary cost first.

"Would you have listened?" You squeeze back just as tightly, you have missed this, you've missed him in general but holding him, feeling him in your arms, even if he walks out the door right now, you'll be okay with having held him once more.

"Honestly?" He pulls back from you, folds his arms over his chest, looks at the floor and shakes his head. "No, I would have kneed you in the face." You tilt his face up, your fingers under his chin, your thumb stroking his cheek and meet his eyes, holding his gaze easily.

"You want to knee me, go right ahead. I won't stop you." He raises his leg as though to carry out the threat, you stand your ground, if he wants to hit you he can, no physical assault could hurt as much as the emotional one you've endured for so _very_ long.

"You really wouldn't stop me?" He looks bewildered.

"If that's what you want to do, do it." You say, stepping back, taking your hand from his face. He follows you though, stepping forward, keeping the distance between you both so very small and looks at you.

"We need to talk." He runs his fingers over your cheek. "We need to clear the air but _this_, I can't do this anymore."

"This?" You sternly tell yourself not to second guess him, to let him tell you. If you don't understand, it seems today, you've earned the right to ask him questions, the right to have his answers, your questions deemed worthy of them so you'll ask, you'll ask as many as you can think of until everything is clear to you.

"Kayfabe. This work. I can't not be your friend, your comrade, your ally." His hand doesn't move from your face, his eyes don't leave yours.

"My partner?"

"Exactly." He rests his forehead against yours. "Your partner." He brushes your nose with his and steps away from you, towards the sofa. "The fuck?" He grabs your favourite shirt, you left balled up as a pillow. "Please, _please_ tell me you've washed this fucking thing." He waves it at you before tossing it to the armchair. You scratch the back of your neck and feel your mouth tug into a familiarly sheepish grin. "Fuck sake, Colt! Think of the germs!" He looks so genuinely indignant that you do laugh at him this time.

"It was-" It was the last thing he wore in your house, the last piece of him you had and you clung to it every chance you got, convincing yourself you could still smell his scent in the fabric.

"Fuck, I will fucking wear it every day for a month, if you'll just fucking wash the damn thing." He mutters and sits, sprawls on the sofa. You grin at that thought, him in your shirt, _nothing _but your shirt and your smile. "Get over here. "His voice shakes you from this pleasing idea. He pats the sofa cushions, a clear message to get over there. " Talk to me, fucker." So you go to him, carefully the last thing you want to do is somehow ruin this; you sit on the opposite end of the sofa heavily.

"I don't know what to say." Your voice comes out all wrong, the words don't quite sound right. You sigh and start again. "I couldn't do as you asked, you know. I didn't call, I didn't text, didn't email but I couldn't not think of you. Every day, every hour, every minute, fuck, every second," You let your head fall to the back of the sofa and close your eyes. "I thought of you but I didn't know what to say to you. How to tell you that I can't do this. I can't not have you. I can't not have you in my life, even if all you want is to be friends, even if you don't _love _me anymore, even if you walk out the door and don't look back, I don't think I'll ever stop needing you in my life. I can handle you not loving me, just so long as you're near me, so long as I can have you in some way, any way." You open your eyes and stare at the lemon from Philadelphia, you dried it out when you got back to Chicago, it has sat in front of the TV all this time, you've stared at it a lot over these _long_ months. He doesn't say anything, which surprises you. You were expecting him to have said something by now. You sneak a look at him out of the corner of your eye. He's staring at the lemon too.

"You kept it?"

"I had to." You tell him plainly, you aren't sure you've many words left for him.

"Do you love me?" You turn to stare at him, after everything you just said, he asks you that? "Answer me, Scott." He doesn't look away from the lemon, his voice firm. His eyes are distant; he's worried, you can tell, you can read the look in them so easily, he doesn't quite trust your pretty speech and you can read him so _very_ easily, the language of his expressions so incredibly clear to you. You smile and turn his face towards.

"I love you, Phil." You kiss his forehead softly. "Punkers, I love you." His eyes widen and your smile spreads over his lips.

"I knew it." He crows triumphantly, that ridiculous grin of his lighting up his face. You laugh at him.

"I tell you I love you and all I get is arrogance!" You pull him closer to you, squeezing him tight, pressing a kiss to his hair. "You're an asshole, you know that, right?" He laughs and straddles your thighs, hands cupping your face and rests his forehead on yours, brushing your nose with his own. "You don't have anything to say?"

"I'm an asshole." He leans back and smirks at you.

"Tell me something I don't know." You stroke his hair gently.

"You're an idiot." His smirk softens into something that is almost your smile.

"I know that."

"I love you." Love burning in his eyes, your smile curving his lips, you pull him closer and kiss him softly.

"Yeah, I know that too."

* * *

So that's the last chapter, I can only hope the ending didn't seem too saccharine or forced. The only thing left is the little epilogue which is the justification for the title in my mind. It'll be up later. It's also far too sappy for my liking but no matter how hard I try I can't beat the sap out of Punk sap so it's going to have to stay that, chiper little fucker that he is.

**Guest**: I want to thank you for sticking around all the way! I'm a sucker for Colt/Punk too... If you've any idea let me know and I'll see what I can concoct!

**alizabethianrose**: Thank you for the encouragement and the plot bunnies! I'll see if any decide to jump into the pot, as it were!

**agd888**: I've really be grateful for your little words of encouragement throughout this story!

**bitter-alisa**:Lets face it your Punk = indecisive my Punk = so far beyond indecisive he has decisively decided not to decide and nope no moping for Punkers! Punk/Raven has a crazy page in the notebook of plotlines - It looks like the ravings of a mad woman but its forming.

Requests/suggestions/ideas/comment/criticisms/poke swithsharpsticks all gratefully received.


	14. Gorilla Position

Colt chapter (He apparently felt like he deserved some more smut.): 2nd person Warning: slash, profanity, continuing sap.

* * *

"Come on, bed. You look like shit." He slides off your lap and offers you his hand, you let him haul you to your feet and pull you in for a kiss. Your free hand tangles in his hair as you twine the fingers of the hand he holds with his own.

"Missed you." You tell him, he smiles, _your_ smile and starts dragging you to your bedroom.

"Of course you missed me, _I_ would miss me too." He mutters and eyes your bed dubiously. "Did you wash this?"

"Yes." You know there is a hint of regret in your tone and he glances back at you over his shoulder.

"Thank fuck." He flops bonelessly to the bed and grins up at you. "There's no way I would sleep here if you hadn't." You raise an eyebrow and climb onto the bed leaning over him. "Okay, I would _but_ I wouldn't be happy about it. I'd complain," You kiss him. "There would be many repeated and vocal objections." You smirk and kiss him again. "But it smells pretty clean to me; you must have used the expensive detergent." You place another kiss on his lips, drawing your tongue over them, careful of the ring out of half-remembered habit , they part and you let yourself taste him for as long as your lungs allow. "So sleeping, yes?" This time he leans up to you, pulling you closer, guiding you to meet him halfway and kisses you, soft and gentle.

"We could sleep." You agree easily, pulling away from him, pulling your shirt over your head. "That is something we could do." He sits up and pulls his own shirt off. "Or I could kiss you again."

"Hmm, sleeping or kissing. You pose a difficult question, fucker." He pulls a face to indicate that he is giving your proposition some serious thought. You kiss him again, drawing it out as long as possible and trail little nipping kisses down his throat. "No fair, how am I meant to think now?" He gasps out, moves away from you, getting off the bed, shedding his pants, grabbing the lube from the dresser and looking at you expectantly. You aren't sure you've ever undressed so quickly in your life. "However, I think that I can hold out on sleeping, just this once." His tone is light, his grin ridiculously bright, he sets the bottle of lube down on the comforter and sinks to his knees at the foot of the bed waving you to him. "I wanna blow you." He says bluntly. You swallow nervously.

"Are you sure?" You move so that he is on his knees between your spread legs, he rolls his eyes and snorts.

"No, no, not in the least, maybe we should just go to sleep." He moves to stand and you keep him on his knees.

"As much as I'd like to come in your mouth, I've missed your ass." You tell him, stroking his bottom lips as its expression changes from a smirk to your smile. "You blow me and I might have to go on missing it." He looks at you, _well I still want to suck your cock but if you come I'll be pissed_, it would seem that your ability to translate a look from him has returned fully, as he licks yous cock from base to tip. His eyes focused on yours. He takes you in slowly, lets the stud in his tongue drag along the vein along the underside of your length. Your hands tuck his hair behind his ears and you guide him slowly down, when he's as far as he can handle, you let him move back. The pace is slow, your hands in his hair not for guidance or control, so much as just for somewhere to put them. You're so focussed on watching your cock glide in and out of his mouth you don't notice him grabbing the lube, spreading it over his fingers and beginning to prep himself until he moans around you. "Enough, enough." You grind out pulling him back, a string of saliva connecting you both until he licks his lips. "C'mere." You pull him up to you and kiss him. Moving back up the bed and turning him to his back, leaning over him to kiss him once more. He presses the bottle of lube into your hand and spreads his legs. You slick your fingers and slide one inside of him, when he bucks his hips; you ease a second alongside it, stretching him open carefully, brushing his prostate gently. That glorious little soft moan, that you've spent so long being convinced you'd never hear again, sounding in your ears. "You're the most fucking beautiful thing in the World like this." You tell him. His hazy eyes focus on you, _bullshit Cabana_. "You are. You have no idea. All undone and desperate, all because of me." You chuckle in his ear, sucking behind it because he likes it, because it makes him moan.

"Shut up and fuck me." He groans, you laugh softly, press more firmly on his prostate making him moan again, his eyes closing tight. "Ah! Fucker, enough! Please." His eyes open and stare at you, _enough of this stop teasing me and get on with it_. You follow his unspoken instructions and ease inside of him, his legs wrap around you holding you still in him. You place soft little kisses over his face, rub his nose with yours. "Why is that a thing?" He moans softly.

"You don't like it?" You ask him, surprised he's coherent enough to question the Eskimo kisses that appear to have become a _thing_ between you, your reasoning goes back to the night after Mexico, back to when you should have realised that there was more between you both but this doesn't matter, you think, as he tightens the muscles around your length, drawing you back to the present.

"Make love to me." He demands, a hazy if haughty expression in his eyes. You do as he asks, moving as slowly as ever. You're careful with him, always so careful because he won't be with himself. He needs someone to take of him and that someone is, apparently, you. You stroke his cock as slowly as you move in him, his breathing growing heavy gradually. You stay steady and slow, letting your orgasm build piece by piece.

"Punkers." You gasp softly, you're so very close and you want him with you, you want his face as it twists in pleasure to be the last thing you see before you come.

"I know." He moans softly and you stroke him twice more before he comes, his body tight around you, your own orgasm spilling into him.

You lay on him, your face against his neck as you catch your breath, his hands move along your shoulder blades, occasionally into your hair.

"I love you." His voice is soft, fuzzy with oncoming sleep. You smile and place a soft kiss to his neck over his pulse, slowly remove yourself from him and lay down on your back, he's settled on your chest before you've even thought to catch him to pull him over to you. You stroke his hair gently, you'll have to ask him if he likes to have it stroked one day.

"I love you, too." He shifts, squirming into a new position resting his head on folded arms, the position is mildly uncomfortable for you but he looks content that a little discomfort on your part is nothing. You've endured far worse for him.

"I got a contract from WWE, came two days ago." You were right, he was confident that his tryout went well and with good reason it would seem; you smile at him, stroking his cheek.

"Where are they sending you?" His eyebrow raises, clearly this was not the answer he was expecting, you try to put _our friends are nosy fuckers and ask me things about your personal business all the time because you're a damn salty asshole_ into an expression. The quirk of his lips tells you that you managed to convey the message.

"OVW." Ohio, that's only about four hours away. You smile and pull him up for a kiss.

"Closer to home."

* * *

**alizabethianrose** & **agd888 **& **Guest**: This is the end I promise! LoL Totally the last chapter. Epilogue up and everything. Thanks for your support and _incredibly_ kind words!

**bitter-alisa**: Apparently Colt agreed with you that he wanted more smut and wouldn't shut up about it. I have no resistance to him based on the cruelties I have inflicted upon him so he got his smut. Hopefully it was okay.


	15. Scheduled for One Fall

Finally, now that the extra chapter is done: Epilogue

Punk chapter: 1st person Warnings: profanity continued sap.

* * *

Nothing in life is perfect, if I have learned one thing it is that. I am an asshole and he is an idiot but together we are pretty damn close. I concede, perhaps I am not in possession of the longest fuse and maybe I am perhaps not the most tactful person on the Earth but he balances me out. I'm like a comet hurtling along leaving wounded egos and frayed tempers in wake and he's the fire that burns around me, deflecting everything that should come back to haunt me but doesn't because he's there, to soothe, to placate, to fix my messes, me too.

I was lying on his chest in an embarrassingly sappy mood, when I told him about my contract, he was stroking my hair like he would be happy to do that forever. Whilst, I spend entirely too much of my time feeling embarrassingly sappy, he entirely does not spend enough time petting me. I resent you this, Life. When I told him they were sending me to OVW, all he said was that it was closer to home and I guess he was right, still it doesn't stop the Monte from clocking up the miles. How that piece of shit still fucking runs remains a mystery to me.

Every morning, I'm down here he sends me the same message, I have tried arguing him out of, I am very much _his_ and his lemons were for when I wasn't. His reasoning is I'm not there; I'm not with him so I need the reminder that he loves me. I am perfectly aware that he loves me, fuck it, I _knew_ he loved me before _he_ did but then again he is an idiot. I swear he is keeping that fucking grocery store open single-handedly. Fucking idiot that he is, your fault again, Life.

Oh be quiet you, you're never fucking satisfied are you, Mr Punk?

I am, sometimes.

You get your nice barrel-chested glass of lemonade and you're still bitching and bitching and bitching.

Do you ha-

And bitching.

-ve any idea how much money he has wasted there?

And bitching.

I'd been down here, in OVW, for a year before they rang me. They're _finally _calling me up to TV. They called me in to hear the song they're giving me._This fire burns_, I like it. There is fire inside me, around me and it burns, like a comet through the sky, always.

* * *

And we're done! That's it.

Special thanks go to the incredible **bitter-alisa!**

This story would not exist if it wasn't for you. I don't think I have words to thank you for the inspiration and encouragement you have given me!

If you aren't reading her work, you really _need_to be!

Thanks to everyone who has reviewed, followed, favourited, read, enjoyed, clicked on the first chapter and actually stuck around even if it is in the back not saying anything.

It started as a vague idea, progressed to a one-shot and ended up as this, 14 chapters when it had been 10 on paper and then 13 and then 13 + 1 and now this, the +1 stuck around as you see... It's very much a thing... Not sure what kind of thing it is but it is a thing and I am okay with that. :)

Any ideas/comments/suggestions/homelessplotlinesthatyo udon'twant are gratefully accepted.


End file.
